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briMianl tnta of (wdo/n deviltry. * — Truman Capote 








Rosemary’s Baby 



By Ira Levin: 


Novels 

SON OF ROSEMARY 
SLIVER 

THE BOYS FROM BRAZIL 
THE STEPFORD WIVES 
THIS PERFECT DAY 
ROSEMARY’S BABY 
A KISS BEFORE DYING 


Plays 

DRAT! THE CAT! (Music by Milton Schafer) 

CRITIC’S CHOICE 
GENERAL SEEGER 
INTERLOCK 

NO TIME FOR SERGEANTS (From the novel by Mac Hyman) 



Rosemary’s Baby 



IRA LEVIN 



PEGASUS BOOKS 
NEW YORK 



ROSEMARY’S BABY 


Pegasus Books LLC 
80 Broad Street 
5th Floor 

New York, NY 10004 

Copyright © 1967 by Ira Levin 
Introduction copyright © 2010 by Otto Penzler 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part 
without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may 
quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or 
electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a 
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, 
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from 
the publisher. 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available. 

ISBN: 978-1-605-98148-2 


www.pegasusbooks.us 



COMPLETED IN AUGUST, 1966, 

IN WILTON, CONNECTICUT, 

AND DEDICATED TO GABRIELLE 



Contents 


INTRODUCTION 


PART 1 
CHAPTER 1 

CHAPTER 2 

CHAPTER 3 

CHAPTER 4 

CHAPTER 5 

CHAPTER 6 

CHAPTER 7 

CHAPTER 8 

CHAPTER 9 

CHAPTER 10 


PART 2 
CHAPTER 1 

CHAPTER 2 

















CHAPTER 3 


CHAPTER 4 

CHAPTER 5 

CHAPTER 6 

CHAPTER 7 

CHAPTER 8 

CHAPTER 9 

CHAPTER 10 


PART 3 
CHAPTER 1 

CHAPTER 2 













INTRODUCTION 


by Otto Penzler 


The argument could be made that Rosemary’s Baby is one of the half-dozen most 
influential horror novels of all time, up there with Frankenstein for inventing the 
genre, Dracula for creating the single most iconic creature who ever lived...and 
lived...and lived, and Carrie, for launching the career of Stephen King, the 
greatest and most popular horror writer in history. The downside, as Ira Levin 
often stated, is that the novel and the excellent film adaptation spurred a virtual 
flood of exorcists, omens, demon seeds, changelings and other hackneyed 
copycats. 

“It’s one thing to refer to the book,” Levin wrote of Rosemary’s Baby, “as 
being ‘generally credited or blamed for having sparked the current revival of 
occultism/ and another to recognize, as I have in the past few years (writing in 
1990), that the blame may be real and weighty.” 

The preponderance of horror in fiction and on film led to a time, Levin 
noted, “when people, presumably schooled, detect backward demonic messages 
in rock music and Satan’s symbol on bars of soap.” 

Levin was not a believer—not in any organized religion, not Satanism, not 
witchcraft, not in any of the myths or charismatic real-life figures who have 
engendered worship. In fact, he had rather hoped that his novel would help to 
increase the skepticism that had always resided with him. It wasn’t to be. Not 
only did the book become a publishing phenomenon, rushing to the top of best¬ 
seller lists, but it was the basis for a faithful motion picture version that also was 
a staggering success at the box office and one of the few horror films of the 
1960s that holds up to repeated viewing, even today. 

Hollywood directors are famous for signing on to make a motion picture 
based on a novel and then changing it so dramatically that even the author 



wouldn’t recognize it. This was not the case with Roman Polanski, who was 
almost obsessive about following the author’s story. He met regularly with 
Levin, pages marked in the book, asking such questions as, What do you think is 
the color of Rosemary’s dress in this scene? and What is the date of the issue of 
The New Yorker in which Guy Woodhouse sees a shirt he wants?—all very 
flattering to the author, who had no idea how to answer. It was uncommonly 
wise of the director, who also wrote the screenplay for the 1968 masterpiece 
starring Mia Farrow as the young woman who slowly becomes convinced that 
her husband (John Cassavetes) has become involved with a coven of witches 
who live in their apartment building. 

Ira Levin (1929-2007) was the genius whose brilliant first novel, A Kiss 
Before Dying (1953), won the Edgar Allan Poe Award from the Mystery Writers 
of America in the Best First Novel category. Never a prolific novelist, his next 
novel was Rosemary’s Baby (1967), which he followed with the dystopian 
science fiction thriller This Perfect Day (1970). He then added a phrase to the 
language with The Stepford Wives (1972) before writing the huge best-seller, The 
Boys from Brazil (1976), then concluded his novel-writing career with two less 
well-regarded books, Sliver (1991) and Son of Rosemary (1997). All but This 
Perfect Day and Son of Rosemary have been filmed at least once. 

Levin’s success as a playwright equaled or exceeded that of his books, 
notably his adaptation of Mac Hyman’s No Time for Sergeants to the stage in 
1955; it starred Andy Griffith, launching his career. He also wrote the book and 
lyrics for the musical Drat! The Cat! (1965). But it is his 1978 tour-de-force, 
Deathtrap, that brought him his greatest acclaim. It was nominated for a Tony 
and won the Edgar, becoming the all-time longest running thriller in the history 
of the American theater, with 1,809 performances over a four-and-a-half-year 
period. 

What a career! At the age of 23, while most recent college graduates are still 
living at home and trying to figure out what they want to do, Levin had written 
one of the greatest mystery novels of all time. A couple of years later, he had a 
hit Broadway play. He wrote the lyrics for one of Barbra Streisand’s signature 
songs, “He Touched Me.” After some television work ( Lights Out, The U.S. Steel 
Hour), he had another hit on Broadway, and then the horror novel to end all 
horror novels. He wasn’t yet forty. 

Although somewhat reclusive in later life, Ira Levin was, perhaps contrary to 
expectation, a delightful companion who loved to laugh and hear other people’s 
stories. We happened to be at the same Christmas party one year and he was as 



genial as could be. But he was also a little troubled. The party was at the home 
of America’s greatest comic crime novelist, Donald E. Westlake, and, not 
surprisingly, there were many authors and book people in the room. It had been 
almost fifteen years since he had written The Boys from Brazil and he said he felt 
like a fraud, that he was listening to conversations and realized that everyone 
else had books recently published or books on which they were working. He 
went home and wrote Sliver in a few months and, as was usual for him, it hit the 
best-seller lists. 

He should have realized that he was not a fraud, not for an instant, and that 
no one sane could ever have thought he was. He wrote brilliantly in every 
literary field in which he worked, his sentences models of precision, making up 
what they lacked in velvety, mandarin, overripe prose with clarity and forward 
movement, with never a wasted word. He was justly proud of his achievements 
—except, perhaps, in the case of Rosemary’s Baby, because of the books and 
films by others for which it had been a catalyst. He once wrote that he regarded 
his novel the way he might have felt about “an offspring who regularly sent 
home money that I’d begun to suspect was ill-gotten.” He was dismayed that “it 
helped boost the universal stupidity quotient.” But, like that hypothetical 
offspring’s offerings, he never felt compelled to send back the money. Nor 
should he have. He enriched those readers fortunate enough to have picked up 
this perfect classic, and we would never give back the experience. 



PART 1 



CHAPTER 1 


ROSEMARY AND GUY WOODHOUSE had signed a lease on a five-room 
apartment in a geometric white house on First Avenue when they received word, 
from a woman named Mrs. Cortez, that a four-room apartment in the Bramford 
had become available. The Bramford, old, black, and elephantine, is a warren of 
high-ceilinged apartments prized for their fireplaces and Victorian detail. 
Rosemary and Guy had been on its waiting list since their marriage but had 
finally given up. 

Guy relayed the news to Rosemary, stopping the phone against his chest. 
Rosemary groaned “Oh no!” and looked as if she would weep. 

“It’s too late,” Guy said to the phone. “We signed a lease yesterday.” 
Rosemary caught his arm. “Couldn’t we get out of it?” she asked him. “Tell 
them something?” 

“Hold on a minute, will you, Mrs. Cortez?” Guy stopped the phone again. 
“Tell them what?” he asked. 

Rosemary floundered and raised her hands helplessly. “I don’t know, the 
truth. That we have a chance to get into the Bramford.” 

“Honey,” Guy said, “they’re not going to care about that.” 

“You’ll think of something, Guy. Let’s just look, all right? Tell her we’ll 
look. Please. Before she hangs up.” 

“We signed a lease, Ro; we’re stuck.” 

“Please! She’ll hang up!” Whimpering with mock anguish, Rosemary pried 
the phone from Guy’s chest and tried to push it up to his mouth. 

Guy laughed and let the phone be pushed. “Mrs. Cortez? It turns out there’s 
a chance we’ll be able to get out of it, because we haven’t signed the actual lease 



yet. They were out of the forms so we only signed a letter of agreement. Can we 
take a look at the apartment?” 

Mrs. Cortez gave instructions: they were to go to the Bramford between 
eleven and eleven-thirty, find Mr. Micklas or Jerome, and tell whichever they 
found that they were the party she had sent to look at 7E. Then they were to call 
her. She gave Guy her number. 

“You see how you can think of things?” Rosemary said, putting Peds and 
yellow shoes on her feet. “You’re a marvelous liar.” 

Guy, at the mirror, said, “Christ, a pimple.” 

“Don’t squeeze it.” 

“It’s only four rooms, you know. No nursery.” 

“I’d rather have four rooms in the Bramford,” Rosemary said, “than a whole 
floor in that—that white cellblock.” 

“Yesterday you loved it.” 

“I liked it. I never loved it. I’ll bet not even the architect loves it. We’ll make 
a dining area in the living room and have a beautiful nursery, when and if.” 

“Soon,” Guy said. He ran an electric razor back and forth across his upper 
lip, looking into his eyes, which were brown and large. Rosemary stepped into a 
yellow dress and squirmed the zipper up the back of it. 

They were in one room, that had been Guy’s bachelor apartment. It had 
posters of Paris and Verona, a large day bed and a pullman kitchen. 

It was Tuesday, the third of August. 


Mr. Micklas was small and dapper but had fingers missing from both hands, 
which made shaking hands an embarrassment, though not apparently for him. 
“Oh, an actor,” he said, ringing for the elevator with a middle finger. “We’re 
very popular with actors.” He named four who were living at the Bramford, all 
of them well known. “Have I seen you in anything?” 

“Let’s see,” Guy said. “I did Hamlet a while back, didn’t I, Liz? And then 
we made The Sandpiper ...” 

“He’s joking,” Rosemary said. “He was in Luther and Nobody Loves An 
Albatross and a lot of television plays and television commercials.” 

“That’s where the money is, isn’t it?” Mr. Micklas said; “the commercials.” 

“Yes,” Rosemary said, and Guy said, “And the artistic thrill, too.” 

Rosemary gave him a pleading look; he gave back one of stunned innocence 
and then made a leering vampire face at the top of Mr. Micklas’s head. 



The elevator—oak-paneled, with a shining brass handrail all around—was 
run by a uniformed Negro boy with a locked-in-place smile. “Seven,” Mr. 
Micklas told him; to Rosemary and Guy he said, “This apartment has four 
rooms, two baths, and five closets. Originally the house consisted of very large 
apartments—the smallest was a nine—but now they’ve almost all been broken 
up into fours, fives, and sixes. Seven E is a four that was originally the back part 
of a ten. It has the original kitchen and master bath, which are enormous, as 
you’ll soon see. It has the original master bedroom for its living room, another 
bedroom for its bedroom, and two servant’s rooms thrown together for its dining 
room or second bedroom. Do you have children?” 

“We plan to,” Rosemary said. 

“It’s an ideal child’s room, with a full bathroom and a large closet. The 
whole set-up is made to order for a young couple like yourselves.” 

The elevator stopped and the Negro boy, smiling, chivied it down, up, and 
down again for a closer alignment with the floor rail outside; and still smiling, 
pulled in the brass inner gate and the outer rolling door. Mr. Micklas stood aside 
and Rosemary and Guy stepped out—into a dimly lighted hallway walled and 
carpeted in dark green. A workman at a sculptured green door marked 7B looked 
at them and turned back to fitting a peepscope into its cut-out hole. 

Mr. Micklas led the way to the right and then to the left, through short 
branches of dark green hallway. Rosemary and Guy, following, saw rubbed- 
away places in the wallpaper and a seam where it had lifted and was curling 
inward; saw a dead light bulb in a cut-glass sconce and a patched place of light 
green tape on the dark green carpet. Guy looked at Rosemary: Patched carpet? 
She looked away and smiled brightly: I love it; everything’s lovely! 

“The previous tenant, Mrs. Gardenia,” Mr. Micklas said, not looking back at 
them, “passed away only a few days ago and nothing has been moved out of the 
apartment yet. Her son asked me to tell whoever looks at it that the rugs, the air 
conditioners, and some of the furniture can be had practically for the asking.” He 
turned into another branch of hallway papered in newer-looking green and gold 
stripes. 

“Did she die in the apartment?” Rosemary asked. “Not that it—” 

“Oh, no, in a hospital,” Mr. Micklas said. “She’d been in a coma for weeks. 
She was very old and passed away without ever waking. I’ll be grateful to go 
that way myself when the time comes. She was chipper right to the end; cooked 
her own meals, shopped the departments stores.. .She was one of the first women 
lawyers in New York State.” 



They came now to a stairwell that ended the hallway. Adjacent to it, on the 
left, was the door of apartment 7E, a door without sculptured garlands, narrower 
than the doors they had passed. Mr. Micklas pressed the pearl bell button— L. 
Gardenia was mounted above it in white letters on black plastic—and turned a 
key in the lock. Despite lost fingers he worked the knob and threw the door 
smartly. “After you, please,” he said, leaning forward on his toes and holding the 
door open with the length of an outstretched arm. 


The apartment’s four rooms were divided two and two on either side of a narrow 
central hallway that extended in a straight line from the front door. The first 
room on the right was the kitchen, and at the sight of it Rosemary couldn’t keep 
from giggling, for it was as large if not larger than the whole apartment in which 
they were then living. It had a six-burner gas stove with two ovens, a mammoth 
refrigerator, a monumental sink; it had dozens of cabinets, a window on Seventh 
Avenue, a high high ceiling, and it even had—imagining away Mrs. Gardenia’s 
chrome table and chairs and roped bales of Fortune and Musical America —the 
perfect place for something like the blue-and-ivory breakfast nook she had 
clipped from last month’s House Beautiful. 

Opposite the kitchen was the dining room or second bedroom, which Mrs. 
Gardenia had apparently used as a combination study and greenhouse. Hundreds 
of small plants, dying and dead, stood on jerry-built shelves under spirals of 
unlighted fluorescent tubing; in their midst a rolltop desk spilled over with books 
and papers. A handsome desk it was, broad and gleaming with age. Rosemary 
left Guy and Mr. Micklas talking by the door and went to it, stepping over a shelf 
of withered brown fronds. Desks like this were displayed in antique-store 
windows; Rosemary wondered, touching it, if it was one of the things that could 
be had practically for the asking. Graceful blue penmanship on mauve paper said 
than merely the intriguing pastime I believed it to be. I can no longer associate 
myself —and she caught herself snooping and looked up at Mr. Micklas turning 
from Guy. “Is this desk one of the things Mrs. Gardenia’s son wants to sell?” she 
asked. 

“I don’t know,” Mr. Micklas said. “I could find out for you, though.” 

“It’s a beauty,” Guy said. 

Rosemary said “Isn’t it?” and smiling, looked about at walls and windows. 
The room would accommodate almost perfectly the nursery she had imagined. It 
was a bit dark—the windows faced on a narrow courtyard—but the white-and- 



yellow wallpaper would brighten it tremendously. The bathroom was small but a 
bonus, and the closet, filled with potted seedlings that seemed to be doing quite 
well, was a good one. 

They turned to the door, and Guy asked, “What are all these?” 

“Herbs, mostly,” Rosemary said. “There’s mint and basil...I don’t know 
what these are.” 

Farther along the hallway there was a guest closet on the left, and then, on 
the right, a wide archway opening onto the living room. Large bay windows 
stood opposite, two of them, with diamond panes and three-sided window seats. 
There was a small fireplace in the right-hand wall, with a scrolled white marble 
mantel, and there were high oak bookshelves on the left. 

“Oh, Guy,” Rosemary said, finding his hand and squeezing it. Guy said 
“Mm” noncommittally but squeezed back; Mr. Micklas was beside him. 

“The fireplace works, of course,” Mr. Micklas said. 

The bedroom, behind them, was adequate—about twelve by eighteen, with 
its windows facing on the same narrow courtyard as those of the dining-room- 
second-bedroom-nursery. The bathroom, beyond the living room, was big, and 
full of bulbous white brass-knobbed fixtures. 

“It’s a marvelous apartment!” Rosemary said, back in the living room. She 
spun about with opened arms, as if to take and embrace it. “I love it!” 

“What she’s trying to do,” Guy said, “is get you to lower the rent.” 

Mr. Micklas smiled. “We would raise it if we were allowed,” he said. 
“Beyond the fifteen-per-cent increase, I mean. Apartments with this kind of 
charm and individuality are as rare as hen’s teeth today. The new—” He stopped 
short, looking at a mahogany secretary at the head of the central hallway. “That’s 
odd,” he said. “There’s a closet behind that secretary. I’m sure there is. There are 
five: two in the bedroom, one in the second bedroom, and two in the hallway, 
there and there.” He went closer to the secretary. 

Guy stood high on tiptoes and said, “You’re right. I can see the corners of 
the door.” 

“She moved it,” Rosemary said. “The secretary; it used to be there.” She 
pointed to a peaked silhouette left ghost-like on the wall near the bedroom door, 
and the deep prints of four ball feet in the burgundy carpet. Faint scuff-trails 
curved and crossed from the four prints to the secretary’s feet where they stood 
now against the narrow adjacent wall. 

“Give me a hand, will you?” Mr. Micklas said to Guy. 

Between them they worked the secretary bit by bit back toward its original 



place. “I see why she went into a coma,” Guy said, pushing. 

“She couldn’t have moved this by herself,” Mr. Micklas said; “she was 
eighty-nine.” 

Rosemary looked doubtfully at the closet door they had uncovered. “Should 
we open it?” she asked. “Maybe her son should.” 

The secretary lodged neatly in its four footprints. Mr. Micklas massaged his 
fingers-missing hands. “I’m authorized to show the apartment,” he said, and 
went to the door and opened it. The closet was nearly empty; a vacuum cleaner 
stood at one side of it and three or four wood boards at the other. The overhead 
shelf was stacked with blue and green bath towels. 

“Whoever she locked in got out,” Guy said. 

Mr. Micklas said, “She probably didn’t need five closets.” 

“But why would she cover up her vacuum cleaner and her towels?” 
Rosemary asked. 

Mr. Micklas shrugged. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know. She may have been 
getting senile after all.” He smiled. “Is there anything else I can show you or tell 
you?” 

“Yes,” Rosemary said. “What about the laundry facilities? Are there washing 
machines downstairs?” 


They thanked Mr. Micklas, who saw them out onto the sidewalk, and then they 
walked slowly uptown along Seventh Avenue. 

“It’s cheaper than the other,” Rosemary said, trying to sound as if practical 
considerations stood foremost in her mind. 

“It’s one room less, honey,” Guy said. 

Rosemary walked in silence for a moment, and then said, “It’s better 
located.” 

“God, yes,” Guy said. “I could walk to all the theaters.” 

Heartened, Rosemary leaped from practicality. “Oh Guy, let’s take it! Please! 
Please! It’s such a wonderful apartment! She didn’t do anything with it, old Mrs. 
Gardenia! That living room could be—it could be beautiful, and warm, and—oh 
please, Guy, let’s take it, all right?” 

“Well sure,” Guy said, smiling. “If we can get out of the other thing.” 

Rosemary grabbed his elbow happily. “We will!” she said. “You’ll think of 
something, I know you will!” 

Guy telephoned Mrs. Cortez from a glass-walled booth while Rosemary, 



outside, tried to lip-read. Mrs. Cortez said she would give them until three 
o’clock; if she hadn’t heard from them by then she would call the next party on 
the waiting list. 

They went to the Russian Tea Room and ordered Bloody Mary’s and chicken 
salad sandwiches on black bread. 

“You could tell them I’m sick and have to go into the hospital,” Rosemary 
said. 

But that was neither convincing nor compelling. Instead Guy spun a story 
about a call to join a company of Come Blow Your Horn leaving for a four- 
month USO tour of Vietnam and the Far East. The actor playing Alan had 
broken his hip and unless he, Guy, who knew the part from stock, stepped in and 
replaced him, the tour would have to be postponed for at least two weeks. Which 
would be a damn shame, the way those kids over there were slugging away 
against the Commies. His wife would have to stay with her folks in Omaha... 

He ran it twice and went to find the phone. 

Rosemary sipped her drink, keeping her left hand all-fingers-crossed under 
the table. She thought about the First Avenue apartment she didn’t want and 
made a conscientious mental list of its good points; the shiny new kitchen, the 
dishwasher, the view of the East River, the central air conditioning... 

The waitress brought the sandwiches. 

A pregnant woman went by in a navy blue dress. Rosemary watched her. She 
must have been in her sixth or seventh month, talking back happily over her 
shoulder to an older woman with packages, probably her mother. 

Someone waved from the opposite wall—the red-haired girl who had come 
into CBS a few weeks before Rosemary left. Rosemary waved back. The girl 
mouthed something and, when Rosemary didn’t understand, mouthed it again. A 
man facing the girl turned to look at Rosemary, a starved-looking waxen-faced 
man. 

And there came Guy, tall and handsome, biting back his grin, with yes 
glowing all over him. 

“Yes?” Rosemary asked as he took his seat opposite her. 

“Yes,” he said. “The lease is void; the deposit will be returned; I’m to keep 
an eye open for Lieutenant Hartman of the Signal Corps. Mrs. Cortez awaits us 
at two.” 

“You called her?” 

“I called her.” 

The red-haired girl was suddenly with them, flushed and bright-eyed. “I said 



‘Marriage certainly agrees with you, you look marvelous,’” she said. 

Rosemary, ransacking for the girl’s name, laughed and said, “Thank you! 
We’re celebrating. We just got an apartment in the Bramford!” 

“The Bram?” the girl said. “I’m mad about it! If you ever want to sub-let, 
I’m first, and don’t you forget it! All those weird gargoyles and creatures 
climbing up and down between the windows!” 



CHAPTER 2 


HUTCH, SURPRISINGLY, tried to talk them out of it, on the grounds that the 
Bramford was a “danger zone.” 

When Rosemary had first come to New York in June of 1962 she had joined 
another Omaha girl and two girls from Atlanta in an apartment on lower 
Lexington Avenue. Hutch lived next door, and though he declined to be the full¬ 
time father-substitute the girls would have made of him—he had raised two 
daughters of his own and that was quite enough, thank you—he was nonetheless 
on hand in emergencies, such as The Night Someone Was on The Fire Escape 
and The Time Jeanne Almost Choked to Death. His name was Edward Hutchins, 
he was English, he was fifty-four. Under three different pen names he wrote 
three different series of boys’ adventure books. 

To Rosemary he gave another sort of emergency assistance. She was the 
youngest of six children, the other five of whom had married early and made 
homes close to their parents; behind her in Omaha she had left an angry, 
suspicious father, a silent mother, and four resenting brothers and sisters. (Only 
the next-to-the-oldest, Brian, who had a drink problem, had said, “Go on, Rosie, 
do what you want to do,” and had slipped her a plastic handbag with eighty-five 
dollars in it.) In New York Rosemary felt guilty and selfish, and Hutch bucked 
her up with strong tea and talks about parents and children and one’s duty to 
oneself. She asked him questions that had been unspeakable in Catholic High; he 
sent her to a night course in philosophy at NYU. “I’ll make a duchess out of this 
cockney flower girl yet,” he said, and Rosemary had had wit enough to say 
“Garn!” 

Now, every month or so, Rosemary and Guy had dinner with Hutch, either in 



their apartment or, when it was his turn, in a restaurant. Guy found Hutch a bit 
boring but always treated him cordially; his wife had been a cousin of Terence 
Rattigan, the playwright, and Rattigan and Hutch corresponded. Connections 
often proved crucial in the theater, Guy knew, even connections at second hand. 

On the Thursday after they saw the apartment, Rosemary and Guy had 
dinner with Hutch at Klube’s, a small German restaurant on Twenty-third Street. 
They had given his name to Mrs. Cortez on Tuesday afternoon as one of three 
references she had asked for, and he had already received and answered her letter 
of inquiry. 

“I was tempted to say that you were drug addicts or litterbugs,” he said, “or 
something equally repellent to managers of apartment houses.” 

They asked why. 

“I don’t know whether or not you know it,” he said, buttering a roll, “but the 
Bramford had rather an unpleasant reputation early in the century.” He looked 
up, saw that they didn’t know and went on. (He had a broad shiny face, blue eyes 
that darted enthusiastically, and a few strands of wetted-down black hair combed 
crossways over his scalp.) “Along with the Isadora Duncans and Theodore 
Dreisers,” he said, “the Bramford has housed a considerable number of less 
attractive personages. It’s where the Trench sisters performed their little dietary 
experiments, and where Keith Kennedy held his parties. Adrian Marcato lived 
there too; and so did Pearl Ames.” 

“Who were the Trench sisters?” Guy asked, and Rosemary asked, “Who was 
Adrian Marcato?” 

“The Trench sisters,” Hutch said, “were two proper Victorian ladies who 
were occasional cannibals. They cooked and ate several young children, 
including a niece.” 

“Lovely,” Guy said. 

Hutch turned to Rosemary. “Adrian Marcato practiced witchcraft,” he said. 
“He made quite a splash in the eighteen-nineties by announcing that he had 
succeeded in conjuring up the living Satan. He showed off a handful of hair and 
some claw-parings, and apparently people believed him; enough of them, at 
least, to form a mob that attacked and nearly killed him in the Bramford lobby.” 

“You’re joking,” Rosemary said. 

“I’m quite serious. A few years later the Keith Kennedy business began, and 
by the twenties the house was half empty.” 

Guy said, “I knew about Keith Kennedy and about Pearl Ames, but I didn’t 
know Adrian Marcato lived there.” 



“And those sisters,” Rosemary said with a shudder. 

“It was only World War Two and the housing shortage,” Hutch said, “that 
filled the place up again, and now it’s acquired a bit of Grand-Old-Apartment- 
House prestige; but in the twenties it was called Black Bramford and sensible 
people stayed away. The melon is for the lady, isn’t it, Rosemary?” 

The waiter placed their appetizers. Rosemary looked questioningly at Guy; 
he pursed his brow and gave a quick headshake: It’s nothing, don’t let him scare 
you. 

The waiter left. “Over the years,” Hutch said, “the Bramford has had far 
more than its share of ugly and unsavory happenings. Nor have all of them been 
in the distant past. In 1959 a dead infant was found wrapped in newspaper in the 
basement.” 

Rosemary said, “But—awful things probably happen in every apartment 
house now and then.” 

“Now and then,” Hutch said. “The point is, though, that at the Bramford 
awful things happen a good deal more frequently than ‘now and then.’ There are 
less spectacular irregularities too. There’ve been more suicides there, for 
instance, than in houses of comparable size and age.” 

“What’s the answer, Hutch?” Guy said, playing serious-and-concerned. 
“There must be some kind of explanation.” 

Hutch looked at him for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps it’s 
simply that the notoriety of a pair of Trench sisters attracts an Adrian Marcato, 
and his notoriety attracts a Keith Kennedy, and eventually a house becomes a—a 
kind of rallying place for people who are more prone than others to certain types 
of behavior. Or perhaps there are things we don’t know yet—about magnetic 
fields or electrons or whatever—ways in which a place can quite literally be 
malign. I do know this, though: the Bramford is by no means unique. There was 
a house in London, on Praed Street, in which five separate brutal murders took 
place within sixty years. None of the five was in any way connected with any of 
the others; the murderers weren’t related nor were the victims, nor were all the 
murders committed for the same moonstone or Maltese falcon. Yet five separate 
bmtal murders took place within sixty years. In a small house with a shop on the 
street and an apartment overhead. It was demolished in 1954—for no especially 
pressing purpose, since as far as I know the plot was left empty.” 

Rosemary worked her spoon in melon. “Maybe there are good houses too,” 
she said; “houses where people keep falling in love and getting married and 
having babies.” 



“And becoming stars,” Guy said. 

“Probably there are,” Hutch said. “Only one never hears of them. It’s the 
stinkers that get the publicity.” He smiled at Rosemary and Guy. “I wish you two 
would look for a good house instead of the Bramford,” he said. 

Rosemary’s spoon of melon stopped halfway to her mouth. “Are you 
honestly trying to talk us out of it?” she asked. 

“My dear girl,” Hutch said, “I had a perfectly good date with a charming 
woman this evening and broke it solely to see you and say my say. I am honestly 
trying to talk you out of it.” 

“Well, Jesus, Hutch—” Guy began. 

“I am not saying,” Hutch said, “that you will walk into the Bramford and be 
hit on the head with a piano or eaten by spinsters or turned to stone. I am simply 
saying that the record is there and ought to be considered along with the 
reasonable rent and the working fireplace: the house has a high incidence of 
unpleasant happenings. Why deliberately enter a danger zone? Go to the Dakota 
or the Osborne if you’re dead set on nineteenth century splendor.” 

“The Dakota is co-op,” Rosemary said, “and the Osborne’s going to be torn 
down.” 

“Aren’t you exaggerating a little bit, Hutch?” Guy said. “Have there been 
any other ‘unpleasant happenings’ in the past few years? Besides that baby in the 
basement?” 

“An elevator man was killed last winter,” Hutch said. “In a not-at-the- 
dinner-table kind of accident. I was at the library this afternoon with the Times 
Index and three hours of microfilm; would you care to hear more?” 

Rosemary looked at Guy. He put down his fork and wiped his mouth. “It’s 
silly,” he said. “All right, a lot of unpleasant things have happened there. That 
doesn’t mean that more of them are going to happen. I don’t see why the 
Bramford is any more of a ‘danger zone’ than any other house in the city. You 
can flip a coin and get five heads in a row; that doesn’t mean that the next five 
flips are going to be heads too, and it doesn’t mean that the coin is any different 
from any other coin. It’s coincidence, that’s all.” 

“If there were really something wrong,” Rosemary said, “wouldn’t it have 
been demolished? Like the house in London?” 

“The house in London,” Hutch said, “was owned by the family of the last 
chap murdered there. The Bramford is owned by the church next door.” 

“There you are,” Guy said, lighting a cigarette; “we’ve got divine 
protection.” 



“It hasn’t been working,” Hutch said. 

The waiter lifted away their plates. 

Rosemary said, “I didn’t know it was owned by a church,” and Guy said, 
“The whole city is, honey.” 

“Have you tried the Wyoming?” Hutch asked. “It’s in the same block, I 
think.” 

“Hutch,” Rosemary said, “we’ve tried everywhere. There’s nothing, 
absolutely nothing, except the new houses, with neat square rooms that are all 
exactly alike and television cameras in the elevators.” 

“Is that so terrible?” Hutch asked, smiling. 

“Yes,” Rosemary said, and Guy said, “We were set to go into one, but we 
backed out to take this.” 

Hutch looked at them for a moment, then sat back and struck the table with 
wide-apart palms. “Enough,” he said. “I shall mind my own business, as I ought 
to have done from the outset. Make fires in your working fireplace! I’ll give you 
a bolt for the door and keep my mouth shut from this day forward. I’m an idiot; 
forgive me.” 

Rosemary smiled. “The door already has a bolt,” she said. “And one of those 
chain things and a peephole.” 

“Well, mind you use all three,” Hutch said. “And don’t go wandering 
through the halls introducing yourself to all and sundry. You’re not in Iowa.” 

“Omaha.” 

The waiter brought their main courses. 


On the following Monday afternoon Rosemary and Guy signed a two-year lease 
on apartment 7E at the Bramford. They gave Mrs. Cortez a check for five 
hundred and eighty-three dollars—a month’s rent in advance and a month’s rent 
as security—and were told that if they wished they could take occupancy of the 
apartment earlier than September first, as it would be cleared by the end of the 
week and the painters could come in on Wednesday the eighteenth. 

Later on Monday they received a telephone call from Martin Gardenia, the 
son of the apartment’s previous tenant. They agreed to meet him at the apartment 
on Tuesday evening at eight, and, doing so, found him to be a tall man past sixty 
with a cheerful open manner. He pointed out the things he wanted to sell and 
named his prices, all of which were attractively low. Rosemary and Guy 
conferred and examined, and bought two air conditioners, a rosewood vanity 



with a petit-point bench, the living room’s Persian mg, and the andirons, 
firescreen, and tools. Mrs. Gardenia’s rolltop desk, disappointingly, was not for 
sale. While Guy wrote a check and helped tag the items to be left behind, 
Rosemary measured the living room and the bedroom with a six-foot folding 
mle she had bought that morning. 

The previous March, Guy had played a role on Another World, a daytime 
television series. The character was back now for three days, so for the rest of 
the week Guy was busy. Rosemary winnowed a folder of decorating schemes 
she had collected since high school, found two that seemed appropriate to the 
apartment, and with those to guide her went looking at furnishings with Joan 
Jellico, one of the girls from Atlanta she had roomed with on coming to New 
York. Joan had the card of a decorator, which gave them entrance to wholesale 
houses and showrooms of every sort. Rosemary looked and made shorthand 
notes and drew sketches to bring to Guy, and hurried home spilling over with 
fabric and wallpaper samples in time to catch him on Another World and then 
mn out again and shop for dinner. She skipped her sculpture class and canceled, 
happily, a dental appointment. 

On Friday evening the apartment was theirs; an emptiness of high ceilings 
and unfamiliar dark into which they came with a lamp and a shopping bag, 
striking echoes from the farthest rooms. They turned on their air conditioners 
and admired their rug and their fireplace and Rosemary’s vanity; admired too 
their bathtub, doorknobs, hinges, molding, floors, stove, refrigerator, bay 
windows, and view. They picnicked on the rug, on tuna sandwiches and beer, 
and made floor plans of all four rooms, Guy measuring and Rosemary drawing. 
On the rug again, they unplugged the lamp and stripped and made love in the 
nightglow of shadeless windows. “Shh!” Guy hissed afterwards, wide-eyed with 
fear. “I hear—the Trench sisters chewing!” Rosemary hit him on the head, hard. 

They bought a sofa and a king-size bed, a table for the kitchen and two 
bentwood chairs. They called Con Ed and the phone company and stores and 
workmen and the Padded Wagon. 

The painters came on Wednesday the eighteenth; patched, spackled, primed, 
painted, and were gone on Friday the twentieth, leaving colors very much like 
Rosemary’s samples. A solitary paperhanger came in and grumbled and papered 
the bedroom. 

They called stores and workmen and Guy’s mother in Montreal. They 
bought an armoire and a dining table and hi-fi components and new dishes and 
silverware. They were flush. In 1964 Guy had done a series of Anacin 



commercials that, shown time and time again, had earned him eighteen thousand 
dollars and was still producing a sizable income. 

They hung window shades and papered shelves, watched carpet go down in 
the bedroom and white vinyl in the hallway. They got a plug-in phone with three 
jacks; paid bills and left a forwarding notice at the post office. 

On Friday, August 27th, they moved. Joan and Dick Jellico sent a large 
potted plant and Guy’s agent a small one. Hutch sent a telegram: The Bramford 
will change from a bad house to a good house when one of its doors is marked 
R. and G. Woodhouse. 



CHAPTER 3 


AND THEN ROSEMARY was busy and happy. She bought and hung curtains, 
found a Victorian glass lamp for the living room, hung pots and pans on the 
kitchen wall. One day she realized that the four boards in the hall closet were 
shelves, fitting across to sit on wood cleats on the side walls. She covered them 
with gingham contact paper and, when Guy came home, showed him a neatly 
filled linen closet. She found a supermarket on Sixth Avenue and a Chinese 
laundry on Fifty-fifth Street for the sheets and Guy’s shirts. 

Guy was busy too, away every day like other women’s husbands. With 
Labor Day past, his vocal coach was back in town; Guy worked with him each 
morning and auditioned for plays and commercials most afternoons. At breakfast 
he was touchy reading the theatrical page—everyone else was out of town with 
Skyscraper or Drat! The Cat! or The Impossible Years or Hot September; only he 
was in New York with residuals-from-Anacin—but Rosemary knew that very 
soon he’d get something good, and quietly she set his coffee before him and 
quietly took for herself the newspaper’s other section. 

The nursery was, for the time being, a den, with off-white walls and the 
furniture from the old apartment. The white-and-yellow wallpaper would come 
later, clean and fresh. Rosemary had a sample of it lying ready in Picasso’s 
Picassos, along with a Saks ad showing the crib and bureau. 

She wrote to her brother Brian to share her happiness. No one else in the 
family would have welcomed it; they were all hostile now—parents, brothers, 
sisters—not forgiving her for A) marrying a Protestant, B) marrying in only a 
civil ceremony, and C) having a mother-in-law who had had two divorces and 
was married now to a Jew up in Canada. 



She made Guy chicken Marengo and vitello tonnato, baked a mocha layer 
cake and a jarful of butter cookies. 


They heard Minnie Castevet before they met her; heard her through their 
bedroom wall, shouting in a hoarse midwestern bray. “Roman, come to bed! It’s 
twenty past eleven!” And five minutes later: “Roman? Bring me in some root 
beer when you come! ” 

“I didn’t know they were still making Ma and Pa Kettle movies,” Guy said, 
and Rosemary laughed uncertainly. She was nine years younger than Guy, and 
some of his references lacked clear meaning for her. 

They met the Goulds in 7F, a pleasant elderly couple, and the German- 
accented Bruhns and their son Walter in 7C. They smiled and nodded in the hall 
to the Kelloggs, 7G, Mr. Stein, 7H, and the Messrs. Dubin and DeVore, 7B. 
(Rosemary learned everyone’s name immediately, from doorbells and from face¬ 
up mail on doormats, which she had no qualms about reading.) The Kapps in 
7D, unseen and with no mail, were apparently still away for the summer; and the 
Castevets in 7 A, heard (“Roman! Where’s Terry?”) but unseen, were either 
recluses or comers-and-goers-at-odd-hours. Their door was opposite the elevator, 
their doormat supremely readable. They got air mail letters from a surprising 
variety of places: Hawick, Scotland; Langeac, France; Vitoria, Brazil; Cessnock, 
Australia. They subscribed to both Life and Look. 

No sign at all did Rosemary and Guy see of the Trench sisters, Adrian 
Marcato, Keith Kennedy, Pearl Ames, or their latter-day equivalents. Dubin and 
DeVore were homosexuals; everyone else seemed entirely commonplace. 

Almost every night the midwestern bray could be heard, from the apartment 
which, Rosemary and Guy came to realize, had originally been the bigger front 
part of their own. “But it’s impossible to be a hundred per cent sure!” the woman 
argued, and, “If you want my opinion, we shouldn’t tell her at all; that’s my 
opinion!” 

One Saturday night the Castevets had a party, with a dozen or so people 
talking and singing. Guy fell asleep easily but Rosemary lay awake until after 
two, hearing flat unmusical singing and a flute or clarinet that piped along beside 
it. 



The only time Rosemary remembered Hutch’s misgivings and was made uneasy 
by them was when she went down to the basement every fourth day or so to do 
the laundry. The service elevator was in itself unsettling—small, unmanned, and 
given to sudden creaks and tremors—and the basement was an eerie place of 
once-whitewashed brick passageways where footfalls whispered distantly and 
unseen doors thudded closed, where castoff refrigerators faced the wall under 
glary bulbs in wire cages. 

It was here, Rosemary would remember, that a dead baby wrapped in 
newspaper had not so long ago been found. Whose baby had it been, and how 
had it died? Who had found it? Had the person who left it been caught and 
punished? She thought of going to the library and reading the story in old 
newspapers as Hutch had done; but that would have made it more real, more 
dreadful than it already was. To know the spot where the baby had lain, to have 
perhaps to walk past it on the way to the laundry room and again on the way 
back to the elevator, would have been unbearable. Partial ignorance, she decided, 
was partial bliss. Damn Hutch and his good intentions! 

The laundry room would have done nicely in a prison: steamy brick walls, 
more bulbs in cages, and scores of deep double sinks in iron-mesh cubicles. 
There were coin-operated washers and dryers and, in most of the padlocked 
cubicles, privately owned machines. Rosemary came down on weekends or after 
five; earlier on weekdays a bevy of Negro laundresses ironed and gossiped and 
had abruptly fallen silent at her one unknowing intrusion. She had smiled all 
around and tried to be invisible, but they hadn’t spoken another word and she 
had felt self-conscious, clumsy, and Negro-oppressing. 

One afternoon, when she and Guy had been in the Bramford a little over two 
weeks, Rosemary was sitting in the laundry room at 5:15 reading The New 
Yorker and waiting to add softener to the rinse water when a girl her own age 
came in—a dark-haired cameo-faced girl who, Rosemary realized with a start, 
was Anna Maria Alberghetti. She was wearing white sandals, black shorts, and 
an apricot silk blouse, and was carrying a yellow plastic laundry basket. Nodding 
at Rosemary and then not looking at her, she went to one of the washers, opened 
it, and began feeding dirty clothes into it. 

Anna Maria Alberghetti, as far as Rosemary knew, did not live at the 
Bramford, but she could well have been visiting someone and helping out with 
the chores. A closer look, though, told Rosemary that she was mistaken; this 
girl’s nose was too long and sharp and there were other less definable differences 
of expression and carriage. The resemblance, however, was a remarkable one— 



and suddenly Rosemary found the girl looking at her with an embarrassed 
questioning smile, the washer beside her closed and filling. 

“I’m sorry,” Rosemary said. “I thought you were Anna Maria Alberghetti, so 
I’ve been staring at you. I’m sorry.” 

The girl blushed and smiled and looked at the floor a few feet to her side. 
“That happens a lot,” she said. “You don’t have to apologize. People have been 
thinking I’m Anna Maria since I was, oh, just a kid, when she first started out in 
Here Comes The Groom.” She looked at Rosemary, still blushing but no longer 
smiling. “I don’t see a resemblance at all,” she said. “I’m of Italian parentage 
like she is, but no physical resemblance.” 

“There’s a very strong one,” Rosemary said. 

“I guess there is,” the girl said; “everyone’s always telling me. I don’t see it 
though. I wish I did, believe me.” 

“Do you know her?” Rosemary asked. 

“No.” 

“The way you said ‘Anna Maria’ I thought—” 

“Oh no, I just call her that. I guess from talking about her so much with 
everyone.” She wiped her hand on her shorts and stepped forward, holding it out 
and smiling. “I’m Terry Gionoffrio,” she said, “and I can’t spell it so don’t you 
try.” 

Rosemary smiled and shook hands. “I’m Rosemary Woodhouse,” she said. 
“We’re new tenants here. Have you been here long?” 

“I’m not a tenant at all,” the girl said. “I’m just staying with Mr. and Mrs. 
Caste vet, up on the seventh floor. I’m their guest, sort of, since June. Oh, you 
know them?” 

“No,” Rosemary said, smiling, “but our apartment is right behind theirs and 
used to be the back part of it.” 

“Oh for goodness’ sake,” the girl said, “you’re the party that took the old 
lady’s apartment! Mrs.—the old lady who died!” 

“Gardenia.” 

“That’s right. She was a good friend of the Castevets. She used to grow 
herbs and things and bring them in for Mrs. Castevet to cook with.” 

Rosemary nodded. “When we first looked at the apartment,” she said, “one 
room was full of plants.” 

“And now that she’s dead,” Terry said, “Mrs. Castevet’s got a miniature 
greenhouse in the kitchen and grows things herself.” 

“Excuse me, I have to put softener in,” Rosemary said. She got up and got 



the bottle from the laundry bag on the washer. 

“Do you know who you look like?” Terry asked her; and Rosemary, 
unscrewing the cap, said, “No, who?” 

“Piper Laurie.” 

Rosemary laughed. “Oh, no,” she said. “It’s funny your saying that, because 
my husband used to date Piper Laurie before she got married.” 

“No kidding? In Hollywood?” 

“No, here.” Rosemary poured a capful of the softener. Terry opened the 
washer door and Rosemary thanked her and tossed the softener in. 

“Is he an actor, your husband?” Terry asked. 

Rosemary nodded complacently, capping the bottle. 

“No kidding! What’s his name?” 

“Guy Woodhouse,” Rosemary said. “He was in Luther and Nobody Loves An 
Albatross, and he does a lot of work in television.” 

“Gee, I watch TV all day long,” Terry said. “I’ll bet I’ve seen him!” Glass 
crashed somewhere in the basement; a bottle smashing or a windowpane. “Yow,” 
Terry said. 

Rosemary hunched her shoulders and looked uneasily toward the laundry 
room’s doorway. “I hate this basement,” she said. 

“Me too,” Terry said. “I’m glad you’re here. If I was alone now I’d be scared 
stiff.” 

“A delivery boy probably dropped a bottle,” Rosemary said. 

Terry said, “Listen, we could come down together regular. Your door is by 
the service elevator, isn’t it? I could ring your bell and we could come down 
together. We could call each other first on the house phone.” 

“That would be great,” Rosemary said. “I hate coming down here alone.” 

Terry laughed happily, seemed to seek words, and then, still laughing, said, 
“I’ve got a good luck charm that’ll maybe do for both of us!” She pulled away 
the collar of her blouse, drew out a silver neckchain, and showed Rosemary on 
the end of it a silver filigree ball a little less than an inch in diameter. 

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Rosemary said. 

“Isn’t it?” Terry said. “Mrs. Castevet gave it to me the day before yesterday. 
It’s three hundred years old. She grew the stuff inside it in that little greenhouse. 
It’s good luck, or anyway it’s supposed to be.” 

Rosemary looked more closely at the charm Terry held out between thumb 
and fingertip. It was filled with a greenish-brown spongy substance that pressed 
out against the silver openwork. A bitter smell made Rosemary draw back. 



Terry laughed again. “I’m not mad about the smell either,” she said. “I hope 
it works!” 

“It’s a beautiful charm,” Rosemary said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

“It’s European,” Terry said. She leaned a hip against a washer and admired 
the ball, turning it one way and another. “The Castevets are the most wonderful 
people in the world, bar none,” she said. “They picked me up off the sidewalk— 
and I mean that literally; I conked out on Eighth Avenue—and they brought me 
here and adopted me like a mother and father. Or like a grandmother and 
grandfather, I guess.” 

“You were sick?” Rosemary asked. 

“That’s putting it mildly,” Terry said. “I was starving and on dope and doing 
a lot of other things that I’m so ashamed of I could throw up just thinking about 
them. And Mr. and Mrs. Castevet completely rehabilitated me. They got me off 
the H, the dope, and got food into me and clean clothes on me, and now nothing 
is too good for me as far as they’re concerned. They give me all kinds of health 
food and vitamins, they even have a doctor come give me regular check-ups! It’s 
because they’re childless. I’m like the daughter they never had, you know?” 

Rosemary nodded. 

“I thought at first that maybe they had some kind of ulterior motive,” Terry 
said. “Maybe some kind of sex thing they would want me to do, or he would 
want, or she. But they’ve really been like real grandparents. Nothing like that. 
They’re going to put me through secretarial school in a little while and later on 
I’m going to pay them back. I only had three years of high school but there’s a 
way of making it up.” She dropped the filigree ball back into her blouse. 

Rosemary said, “It’s nice to know there are people like that, when you hear 
so much about apathy and people who are afraid of getting involved.” 

“There aren’t many like Mr. and Mrs. Castevet,” Terry said. “I would be 
dead now if it wasn’t for them. That’s an absolute fact. Dead or in jail.” 

“You don’t have any family that could have helped you?” 

“A brother in the Navy. The less said about him the better.” 

Rosemary transferred her finished wash to a dryer and waited with Terry for 
hers to be done. They spoke of Guy’s occasional role on Another World (“Sure I 
remember! You’re married to him?”), the Bramford’s past (of which Terry knew 
nothing), and the coming visit to New York of Pope Paul. Terry was, like 
Rosemary, Catholic but no longer observing; she was anxious, though, to get a 
ticket to the papal mass to be celebrated at Yankee Stadium. When her wash was 
done and drying the two girls walked together to the service elevator and rode to 



the seventh floor. Rosemary invited Terry in to see the apartment, but Terry 
asked if she could take a rain check; the Castevets ate at six and she didn’t like to 
be late. She said she would call Rosemary on the house phone later in the 
evening so they could go down together to pick up their dry laundry. 


Guy was home, eating a bag of Fritos and watching a Grace Kelly movie. “Them 
sure must be clean clothes,” he said. 

Rosemary told him about Terry and the Castevets, and that Terry had 
remembered him from Another World. He made light of it, but it pleased him. He 
was depressed by the likelihood that an actor named Donald Baumgart was 
going to beat him out for a part in a new comedy for which both had read a 
second time that afternoon. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “what kind of a name is 
Donald Baumgart?” His own name, before he changed it, had been Sherman 
Peden. 

Rosemary and Terry picked up their laundry at eight o’clock, and Terry came 
in with Rosemary to meet Guy and see the apartment. She blushed and was 
flustered by Guy, which spurred him to flowery compliments and the bringing of 
ashtrays and the striking of matches. Terry had never seen the apartment before; 
Mrs. Gardenia and the Castevets had had a falling-out shortly after her arrival, 
and soon afterwards Mrs. Gardenia had gone into the coma from which she had 
never emerged. “It’s a lovely apartment,” Terry said. 

“It will be,” Rosemary said. “We’re not even halfway furnished yet.” 

“I’ve got it!” Guy cried with a handclap. He pointed triumphantly at Terry. 
“Anna Maria Alberghetti!” 



CHAPTER 4 


A PACKAGE CAME from Bonniers, from Hutch; a tall teakwood ice bucket 
with a bright orange lining. Rosemary called him at once and thanked him. He 
had seen the apartment after the painters left but not since she and Guy had 
moved in; she explained about the chairs that were a week late and the sofa that 
wasn’t due for another month. “For God’s sake don’t even think yet about 
entertaining,” Hutch said. “Tell me how everything is.” 

Rosemary told him, in happy detail. “And the neighbors certainly don’t seem 
abnormal,” she said. “Except normal abnormal like homosexuals; there are two 
of them, and across the hall from us there’s a nice old couple named Gould with 
a place in Pennsylvania where they breed Persian cats. We can have one any 
time we want.” 

“They shed,” Hutch said. 

“And there’s another couple that we haven’t actually met yet who took in 
this girl who was hooked on drugs, whom we have met, and they completely 
cured her and are putting her through secretarial school.” 

“It sounds as if you’ve moved into Sunnybrook Farm,” Hutch said; “I’m 
delighted.” 

“The basement is kind of creepy,” Rosemary said. “I curse you every time I 
go down there.” 

“Why on earth me?” 

“Your stories .” 

“If you mean the ones I write, I curse me too; if you mean the ones I told 
you, you might with equal justification curse the fire alarm for the fire and the 
weather bureau for the typhoon.” 



Rosemary, cowed, said, “It won’t be so bad from now on. That girl I 
mentioned is going down there with me.” 

Hutch said, “It’s obvious you’ve exerted the healthy influence I predicted 
and the house is no longer a chamber of horrors. Have fun with the ice bucket 
and say hello to Guy.” 


The Kapps in apartment 7D appeared; a stout couple in their middle thirties with 
an inquisitive two-year-old daughter named Lisa. “What’s your name?” Lisa 
asked, sitting in her stroller. “Did you eat your egg? Did you eat your Captain 
Crunch?” 

“My name is Rosemary,” Rosemary said. “I ate my egg but I’ve never even 
heard of Captain Crunch. Who is he?” 


On Friday night, September 17th, Rosemary and Guy went with two other 
couples to a preview of a play called Mrs. Dally and then to a party given by a 
photographer, Dee Bertillon, in his studio on West Forty-eighth Street. An 
argument developed between Guy and Bertillon over Actors Equity’s policy of 
blocking the employment of foreign actors—Guy thought it was right, Bertillon 
thought it was wrong—and though the others present buried the disagreement 
under a quick tide of jokes and gossip, Guy took Rosemary away soon after, at a 
few minutes past twelve-thirty. 

The night was mild and balmy and they walked; and as they approached the 
Bramford’s blackened mass they saw on the sidewalk before it a group of twenty 
or so people gathered in a semicircle at the side of a parked car. Two police cars 
waited double-parked, their roof lights spinning red. 

Rosemary and Guy walked faster, hand in hand, their senses sharpening. 
Cars on the avenue slowed questioningly; windows scraped open in the 
Bramford and heads looked out beside gargoyles’ heads. The night doorman 
Toby came from the house with a tan blanket that a policeman turned to take 
from him. 

The roof of the car, a Volkswagen, was crumpled to the side; the windshield 
was crazed with a million fractures. “Dead,” someone said, and someone else 
said, “I look up and I think it’s some kind of a big bird zooming down, like an 
eagle or something.” 



Rosemary and Guy stood on tiptoes, craned over people’s shoulders. “Get 
back now, will you?” a policeman at the center said. The shoulders separated, a 
sport-shirted back moved away. On the sidewalk Terry lay, watching the sky 
with one eye, half of her face gone to red pulp. Tan blanket flipped over her. 
Settling, it reddened in one place and then another. 

Rosemary wheeled, eyes shut, right hand making an automatic cross. She 
kept her mouth tightly closed, afraid she might vomit. 

Guy winced and drew air in under his teeth. “Oh, Jesus,” he said, and 
groaned. “Oh my God.” 

A policeman said, “Get back, will you?” 

“We know her,” Guy said. 

Another policeman turned and said, “What’s her name?” 

“Terry.” 

“Terry what?” He was forty or so and sweating. His eyes were blue and 
beautiful, with thick black lashes. 

Guy said, “Ro? What was her name? Terry what?” 

Rosemary opened her eyes and swallowed. “I don’t remember,” she said. 
“Italian, with a G. A long name. She made a joke about spelling it. Not being 
able to.” 

Guy said to the blue-eyed policeman, “She was staying with people named 
Castevet, in apartment seven A.” 

“We’ve got that already,” the policeman said. 

Another policeman came up, holding a sheet of pale yellow notepaper. Mr. 
Micklas was behind him, tight-mouthed, in a raincoat over striped pajamas. 
“Short and sweet,” the policeman said to the blue-eyed one, and handed him the 
yellow paper. “She stuck it to the window sill with a Band-Aid so it wouldn’t 
blow away.” 

“Anybody there?” 

The other shook his head. 

The blue-eyed policeman read what was written on the sheet of paper, 
sucking thoughtfully at his front teeth. “Theresa Gionoffrio,” he said. He 
pronounced it as an Italian would. Rosemary nodded. 

Guy said, “Wednesday night you wouldn’t have guessed she had a sad 
thought in her mind.” 

“Nothing but sad thoughts,” the policeman said, opening his pad holder. He 
laid the paper inside it and closed the holder with a width of yellow sticking out. 

“Did you know her?” Mr. Micklas asked Rosemary. 



“Only slightly,” she said. 

“Oh, of course,” Mr. Micklas said; “you’re on seven too.” 

Guy said to Rosemary, “Come on, honey, let’s go upstairs.” 

The policeman said, “Do you have any idea where we can find these people 
Castevet?” 

“No, none at all,” Guy said. “We’ve never even met them.” 

“They’re usually at home now,” Rosemary said. “We hear them through the 
wall. Our bedroom is next to theirs.” 

Guy put his hand on Rosemary’s back. “Come on, hon,” he said. They 
nodded to the policeman and Mr. Micklas, and started toward the house. 

“Here they come now,” Mr. Micklas said. Rosemary and Guy stopped and 
turned. Coming from downtown, as they themselves had come, were a tall, 
broad, white-haired woman and a tall, thin, shuffling man. “The Castevets?” 
Rosemary asked. Mr. Micklas nodded. 

Mrs. Castevet was wrapped in light blue, with snow-white dabs of gloves, 
purse, shoes, and hat. Nurselike she supported her husband’s forearm. He was 
dazzling, in an every-color seersucker jacket, red slacks, a pink bow tie, and a 
gray fedora with a pink band. He was seventy-five or older; she was sixty-eight 
or-nine. They came closer with expressions of young alertness, with friendly 
quizzical smiles. The policeman stepped forward to meet them and their smiles 
faltered and fell away. Mrs. Castevet said something worryingly; Mr. Castevet 
frowned and shook his head. His wide, thin-lipped mouth was rosy-pink, as if 
lipsticked; his cheeks were chalky, his eyes small and bright in deep sockets. She 
was big-nosed, with a sullen fleshy underlip. She wore pinkrimmed eyeglasses 
on a neckchain that dipped down from behind plain pearl earrings. 

The policeman said, “Are you folks the Castevets on the seventh floor?” 

“We are,” Mr. Castevet said in a dry voice that had to be listened for. 

“You have a young woman named Theresa Gionoffrio living with you?” 

“We do,” Mr. Castevet said. “What’s wrong? Has there been an accident?” 

“You’d better brace yourselves for some bad news,” the policeman said. He 
waited, looking at each of them in turn, and then he said, “She’s dead. She killed 
herself.” He raised a hand, the thumb pointing back over his shoulder. “She 
jumped out of the window.” 

They looked at him with no change of expression at all, as if he hadn’t 
spoken yet; then Mrs. Castevet leaned sideways, glanced beyond him at the red- 
stained blanket, and stood straight again and looked him in the eyes. “That’s not 
possible,” she said in her loud midwestern Roman-bring-me-some-root-beer 



voice. “It’s a mistake. Somebody else is under there.” 

The policeman, not turning from her, said, “Artie, would you let these 
people take a look, please?” 

Mrs. Castevet marched past him, her jaw set. 

Mr. Castevet stayed where he was. “I knew this would happen,” he said. 
“She got deeply depressed every three weeks or so. I noticed it and told my wife, 
but she pooh-poohed me. She’s an optimist who refuses to admit that everything 
doesn’t always turn out the way she wants it to.” 

Mrs. Castevet came back. “That doesn’t mean that she killed herself,” she 
said. “She was a very happy girl with no reason for self-destruction. It must have 
been an accident. She must have been cleaning the windows and lost her hold. 
She was always surprising us by cleaning things and doing things for us.” 

“She wasn’t cleaning windows at midnight,” Mr. Castevet said. 

“Why not?” Mrs. Castevet said angrily. “Maybe she was!” 

The policeman held out the pale yellow paper, having taken it from his pad 
holder. 

Mrs. Castevet hesitated, then took it and turned it around and read it. Mr. 
Castevet tipped his head in over her arm and read it too, his thin vivid lips 
moving. 

“Is that her handwriting?” the policeman asked. 

Mrs. Castevet nodded. Mr. Castevet said, “Definitely. Absolutely.” 

The policeman held out his hand and Mrs. Castevet gave him the paper. He 
said, “Thank you. I’ll see you get it back when we’re done with it.” 

She took off her glasses, dropped them on their neckchain, and covered both 
her eyes with white-gloved fingertips. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “I just don’t 
believe it. She was so happy. All her troubles were in the past.” Mr. Castevet put 
his hand on her shoulder and looked at the ground and shook his head. 

“Do you know the name of her next-of-kin?” the policeman asked. 

“She didn’t have any,” Mrs. Castevet said. “She was all alone. She didn’t 
have anyone, only us.” 

“Didn’t she have a brother?” Rosemary asked. 

Mrs. Castevet put on her glasses and looked at her. Mr. Castevet looked up 
from the ground, his deep-socketed eyes glinting under his hat brim. 

“Did she?” the policeman asked. 

“She said she did,” Rosemary said. “In the Navy.” 

The policeman looked to the Castevets. 

“It’s news to me,” Mrs. Castevet said, and Mr. Castevet said, “To both of 



US.” 

The policeman asked Rosemary, “Do you know his rank or where he’s 
stationed?” 

“No, I don’t,” she said, and to the Castevets: “She mentioned him to me the 
other day, in the laundry room. I’m Rosemary Woodhouse.” 

Guy said, “We’re in seven E.” 

“I feel just the way you do, Mrs. Castevet,” Rosemary said. “She seemed so 
happy and full of—of good feelings about the future. She said wonderful things 
about you and your husband; how grateful she was to both of you for all the help 
you were giving her.” 

“Thank you,” Mrs. Castevet said, and Mr. Castevet said, “It’s nice of you to 
tell us that. It makes it a little easier.” 

The policeman said, “You don’t know anything else about this brother 
except that he’s in the Navy?” 

“That’s all,” Rosemary said. “I don’t think she liked him very much.” 

“It should be easy to find him,” Mr. Castevet said, “with an uncommon name 
like Gionoffrio.” 

Guy put his hand on Rosemary’s back again and they withdrew toward the 
house. “I’m so stunned and so sorry,” Rosemary said to the Castevets; and Guy 
said, “It’s such a pity. It’s—” 

Mrs. Castevet said, “Thank you,” and Mr. Castevet said something long and 
sibilant of which only the phrase “her last days” was understandable. 


They rode upstairs (“Oh, my!” the night elevator man Diego said; “Oh, my! Oh, 
my!”), looked ruefully at the now-haunted door of 7A, and walked through the 
branching hallway to their own apartment. Mr. Kellogg in 7G peered out from 
behind his chained door and asked what was going on downstairs. They told 
him. 

They sat on the edge of their bed for a few minutes, speculating about 
Terry’s reason for killing herself. Only if the Castevets told them some day what 
was in the note, they agreed, would they ever learn for certain what had driven 
her to the violent death they had nearly witnessed. And even knowing what was 
in the note, Guy pointed out, they might still not know the full answer, for part of 
it had probably been beyond Terry’s own understanding. Something had led her 
to drugs and something had led her to death; what that something was, it was too 
late now for anyone to know. 



“Remember what Hutch said?” Rosemary asked. “About there being more 
suicides here than in other buildings?” 

“Ah, Ro,” Guy said, “that’s crap, honey, that ‘danger zone’ business.” 

“Hutch believes it.” 

“Well, it’s still crap.” 

“I can imagine what he’s going to say when he hears about this.” 

“Don’t tell him,” Guy said. “He sure as hell won’t read about it in the 
papers.” A strike against the New York newspapers had begun that morning, and 
there were rumors that it might continue a month or longer. 

They undressed, showered, resumed a stopped game of Scrabble, stopped it, 
made love, and found milk and a dish of cold spaghetti in the refrigerator. Just 
before they put the lights out at two-thirty, Guy remembered to check the 
answering service and found that he had got a part in a radio commercial for 
Cresta Blanca wines. 

Soon he was asleep, but Rosemary lay awake beside him, seeing Terry’s 
pulped face and her one eye watching the sky. After a while, though, she was at 
Our Lady. Sister Agnes was shaking her fist at her, ousting her from leadership 
of the second-floor monitors. “Sometimes I wonder how come you’re the leader 
of anything /” she said. A bump on the other side of the wall woke Rosemary, 
and Mrs. Castevet said, “And please don’t tell me what Laura-Louise said 
because I’m not interested!” Rosemary turned over and burrowed into her 
pillow. 

Sister Agnes was furious. Her piggy-eyes were squeezed to slits and her 
nostrils were bubbling the way they always did at such moments. Thanks to 
Rosemary it had been necessary to brick up all the windows, and now Our Lady 
had been taken out of the beautiful-school competition being run by the World- 
Herald. “If you’d listened to me, we wouldn’t have had to do it!” Sister Agnes 
cried in a hoarse midwestern bray. “We’d have been all set to go now instead of 
starting all over from scratch!” Uncle Mike tried to hush her. He was the 
principal of Our Lady, which was connected by passageways to his body shop in 
South Omaha. “I told you not to tell her anything in advance,” Sister Agnes 
continued lower, piggy-eyes glinting hatefully at Rosemary. “I told you she 
wouldn’t be open-minded. Time enough later to let her in on it.” (Rosemary had 
told Sister Veronica about the windows being bricked up and Sister Veronica had 
withdrawn the school from the competition; otherwise no one would have 
noticed and they would have won. It had been right to tell, though, Sister Agnes 
notwithstanding. A Catholic school shouldn’t win by trickery.) “Anybody! 



Anybody!” Sister Agnes said. “All she has to be is young, healthy, and not a 
virgin. She doesn’t have to be a no-good drug-addict whore out of the gutter. 
Didn’t I say that in the beginning? Anybody. As long as she’s young and healthy 
and not a virgin.” Which didn’t make sense at all, not even to Uncle Mike; so 
Rosemary turned over and it was Saturday afternoon, and she and Brian and 
Eddie and Jean were at the candy counter in the Orpheum, going in to see Gary 
Cooper and Patricia Neal in The Fountainhead, only it was live, not a movie. 



CHAPTER 5 


ON THE FOLLOWING MONDAY MORNING Rosemary was putting away the 
last of a double armload of groceries when the doorbell rang; and the peephole 
showed Mrs. Castevet, white hair in curlers under a blue-and-white kerchief, 
looking solemnly straight ahead as if waiting for the click of a passport 
photographer’s camera. 

Rosemary opened the door and said, “Hello. How are you?” 

Mrs. Castevet smiled bleakly. “Fine,” she said. “May I come in for a 
minute?” 

“Yes, of course; please do.” Rosemary stood back against the wall and held 
the door wide open. A faint bitter smell brushed across her as Mrs. Castevet 
came in, the smell of Terry’s silver good luck charm filled with spongy greenish- 
brown. Mrs. Castevet was wearing toreador pants and shouldn’t have been; her 
hips and thighs were massive, slabbed with wide hands of fat. The pants were 
lime green under a blue blouse; the blade of a screwdriver poked from her hip 
pocket. Stopping between the doorways of the den and kitchen, she turned and 
put on her neckchained glasses and smiled at Rosemary. A dream Rosemary had 
had a night or two earlier sparked in her mind—something about Sister Agnes 
bawling her out for bricking up windows—and she shook it away and smiled 
attentively, ready to hear what Mrs. Castevet was about to say. 

“I just came over to thank you,” Mrs. Castevet said, “for saying those nice 
things to us the other night, poor Terry telling you she was grateful to us for what 
we done. You’ll never know how comforting it was to hear something like that 
in such a shock moment, because in both of our minds was the thought that 
maybe we had failed her in some way and drove her to it, although her note 



made it crystal clear, of course, that she did it of her own free will; but anyway it 
was a blessing to hear the words spoken out loud like that by somebody Terry 
had confided in just before the end.” 

“Please, there’s no reason to thank me,” Rosemary said. “All I did was tell 
you what she said to me.” 

“A lot of people wouldn’t have bothered,” Mrs. Castevet said. “They’d have 
just walked away without wanting to spend the air and the little bit of 
musclepower. When you’re older you’ll come to realize that acts of kindness are 
few and far between in this world of ours. So I do thank you, and Roman does 
too. Roman is my hubby.” 

Rosemary ducked her head in concession, smiled, and said, “You’re 
welcome. I’m glad that I helped.” 

“She was cremated yesterday morning with no ceremony,” Mrs. Castevet 
said. “That’s the way she wanted it. Now we have to forget and go on. It 
certainly won’t be easy; we took a lot of pleasure in having her around, not 
having children of our own. Do you have any?” 

“No, we don’t,” Rosemary said. 

Mrs. Castevet looked into the kitchen. “Oh, that’s nice,” she said, “the pans 
hanging on the wall that way. And look how you put the table, isn’t that 
interesting.” 

“It was in a magazine,” Rosemary said. 

“You certainly got a nice paint job,” Mrs. Castevet said, fingering the door 
jamb appraisingly. “Did the house do it? You must have been mighty 
openhanded with the painters; they didn’t do this kind of work for us.” 

“All we gave them was five dollars each,” Rosemary said. 

“Oh, is that all?” Mrs. Castevet turned around and looked into the den. “Oh, 
that’s nice,” she said, “a TV room.” 

“It’s only temporary,” Rosemary said. “At least I hope it is. It’s going to be a 
nursery.” 

“Are you pregnant?” Mrs. Castevet asked, looking at her. 

“Not yet,” Rosemary said, “but I hope to be, as soon as we’re settled.” 

“That’s wonderful,” Mrs. Castevet said. “You’re young and healthy; you 
ought to have lots of children.” 

“We plan to have three,” Rosemary said. “Would you like to see the rest of 
the apartment?” 

“I’d love to,” Mrs. Castevet said. “I’m dying to see what you’ve done to it. I 
used to be in here almost every day. The woman who had it before you was a 



dear friend of mine.” 

“I know,” Rosemary said, easing past Mrs. Castevet to lead the way; “Terry 
told me.” 

“Oh, did she,” Mrs. Castevet said, following along. “It sounds like you two 
had some long talks together down there in the laundry room.” 

“Only one,” Rosemary said. 

The living room startled Mrs. Castevet. “My goodness!” she said. “I can’t 
get over the change! It looks so much brighter! Oh and look at that chair. Isn’t 
that handsome?” 

“It just came Friday,” Rosemary said. 

“What did you pay for a chair like that?” 

Rosemary, disconcerted, said, “I’m not sure. I think it was about two 
hundred dollars.” 

“You don’t mind my asking, do you?” Mrs. Castevet said, and tapped her 
nose. “That’s how I got a big nose, by being nosy.” 

Rosemary laughed and said, “No, no, it’s all right. I don’t mind.” 

Mrs. Castevet inspected the living room, the bedroom, and the bathroom, 
asking how much Mrs. Gardenia’s son had charged them for the rug and the 
vanity, where they had got the night-table lamps, exactly how old Rosemary was, 
and if an electric toothbrush was really any better than the old kind. Rosemary 
found herself enjoying this open forthright old woman with her loud voice and 
her blunt questions. She offered coffee and cake to her. 

“What does your hubby do?” Mrs. Castevet asked, sitting at the kitchen table 
idly checking prices on cans of soup and oysters. Rosemary, folding a Chemex 
paper, told her. “I knew it! Mrs. Castevet said. “I said to Roman yesterday, “He’s 
so good-looking I’ll bet he’s a movie actor’! There’s three-four of them in the 
building, you know. What movies was he in?” 

“No movies,” Rosemary said. “He was in two plays called Luther and 
Nobody Loves An Albatross and he does a lot of work in television and radio.” 

They had the coffee and cake in the kitchen, Mrs. Castevet refusing to let 
Rosemary disturb the living room on her account. “Listen, Rosemary,” she said, 
swallowing cake and coffee at once, “I’ve got a two-inch-thick sirloin steak 
sitting defrosting right this minute, and half of it’s going to go to waste with just 
Roman and me there to eat it. Why don’t you and Guy come over and have 
supper with us tonight, what do you say?” 

“Oh, no, we couldn’t,” Rosemary said. 

“Sure you could; why not?” 



“No, really, I’m sure you don’t want to—” 

“It would be a big help to us if you would,” Mrs. Castevet said. She looked 
into her lap, then looked up at Rosemary with a hard-to-carry smile. “We had 
friends with us last night and Saturday,” she said, “but this’ll be the first night 
we’ll be alone since—the other night.” 

Rosemary leaned forward feelingly. “If you’re sure it won’t be trouble for 
you,” she said. 

“Honey, if it was trouble I wouldn’t ask you,” Mrs. Castevet said. “Believe 
me, I’m as selfish as the day is long.” 

Rosemary smiled. “That isn’t what Terry told me,” she said. 

“Well,” Mrs. Castevet said with a pleased smile, “Terry didn’t know what 
she was talking about.” 

“I’ll have to check with Guy,” Rosemary said, “but you go ahead and count 
on us.” 

Mrs. Castevet said happily, “Listen! You tell him I won’t take no for an 
answer! I want to be able to tell folks I knew him when!” 

They ate their cake and coffee, talking of the excitements and hazards of an 
acting career, the new season’s television shows and how bad they were, and the 
continuing newspaper strike. 

“Will six-thirty be too early for you?” Mrs. Castevet asked at the door. 

“It’ll be perfect,” Rosemary said. 

“Roman don’t like to eat any later than that,” Mrs. Castevet said. “He has 
stomach trouble and if he eats too late he can’t get to sleep. You know where we 
are, don’t you? Seven A, at six-thirty. We’ll be looking forward. Oh, here’s your 
mail, dear; I’ll get it. Ads. Well, it’s better than getting nothing, isn’t it?” 


Guy came home at two-thirty in a bad mood; he had learned from his agent that, 
as he had feared, the grotesquely named Donald Baumgart had won the part he 
had come within a hair of getting. Rosemary kissed him and installed him in his 
new easy chair with a melted cheese sandwich and a glass of beer. She had read 
the script of the play and not liked it; it would probably close out of town, she 
told Guy, and Donald Baumgart would never be heard of again. 

“Even if it folds,” Guy said, “it’s the kind of part that gets noticed. You’ll 
see; he’ll get something else right after.” He opened the corner of his sandwich, 
looked in bitterly, closed it, and started eating. 

“Mrs. Castevet was here this morning,” Rosemary said. “To thank me for 



telling them that Terry was grateful to them. I think she really just wanted to see 
the apartment. She’s absolutely the nosiest person I’ve ever seen. She actually 
asked the prices of things.” 

“No kidding,” Guy said. 

“She comes right out and admits she’s nosy, though, so it’s kind of funny and 
forgivable instead of annoying. She even looked into the medicine chest.” 

“Just like that?” 

“Just like that. And guess what she was wearing.” 

“A Pillsbury sack with three X’s on it.” 

“No, toreador pants.” 

“Toreador pants?” 

“Lime-green ones.” 

“Ye gods.” 

Kneeling on the floor between the bay windows, Rosemary drew a line on 
brown paper with crayon and a yardstick and then measured the depth of the 
window seats. “She invited us to have dinner with them this evening,” she said, 
and looked at Guy. “I told her I’d have to check with you, but that it would 
probably be okay.” 

“Ah, Jesus, Ro,” Guy said, “we don’t want to do that, do we?” 

“I think they’re lonely,” Rosemary said. “Because of Terry.” 

“Honey,” Guy said, “if we get friendly with an old couple like that we’re 
never going to get them off our necks. They’re right here on the same floor with 
us, they’ll be looking in six times a day. Especially if she’s nosy to begin with.” 

“I told her she could count on us,” Rosemary said. 

“I thought you told her you had to check first.” 

“I did, but I told her she could count on us too.” Rosemary looked helplessly 
at Guy. “She was so anxious for us to come.” 

“Well it’s not my night for being kind to Ma and Pa Kettle,” Guy said. “I’m 
sorry, honey, call her up and tell her we can’t make it.” 

“All right, I will,” Rosemary said, and drew another line with the crayon and 
the yardstick. 

Guy finished his sandwich. “You don’t have to sulk about it,” he said. 

“I’m not sulking,” Rosemary said. “I see exactly what you mean about them 
being on the same floor. It’s a valid point and you’re absolutely right. I’m not 
sulking at all.” 

“Oh hell,” Guy said, “we’ll go.” 

“No, no, what for? We don’t have to. I shopped for dinner before she came, 



so that’s no problem.” 

“We’ll go,” Guy said. 

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to. That sounds so phony but I really 
mean it, really I do.” 

“We’ll go. It’ll be my good deed for the day.” 

“All right, but only if you want to. And we’ll make it very clear to them that 
it’s only this one time and not the beginning of anything. Right?” 

“Right.” 



CHAPTER 6 


AT A FEW MINUTES past six-thirty Rosemary and Guy left their apartment 
and walked through the branches of dark green hallway to the Castevets’ door. 
As Guy rang the doorbell the elevator behind them clanged open and Mr. Dubin 
or Mr. DeVore (they didn’t know which was which) came out carrying a suit 
swathed in cleaner’s plastic. He smiled and, unlocking the door of 7B next to 
them, said, “You’re in the wrong place, aren’t you?” Rosemary and Guy made 
friendly laughs and he let himself in, calling “Me! ” and allowing them a glimpse 
of a black sideboard and red-and-gold wallpaper. 

The Castevets’ door opened and Mrs. Castevet was there, powdered and 
rouged and smiling broadly in light green silk and a frilled pink apron. “Perfect 
timing!” she said. “Come on in! Roman’s making Vodka Blushes in the blender. 
My, I’m glad you could come, Guy! I’m fixing to tell people I knew you when! 
‘Had dinner right off that plate, he did—Guy Woodhouse in person!’ I’m not 
going to wash it when you’re done; I’m going to leave it just as is!” 

Guy and Rosemary laughed and exchanged glances; Your friend, his said, 
and hers said, What can I do? 

There was a large foyer in which a rectangular table was set for four, with an 
embroidered white cloth, plates that didn’t all match, and bright ranks of ornate 
silver. To the left the foyer opened on a living room easily twice the size of 
Rosemary and Guy’s but otherwise much like it. It had one large bay window 
instead of two smaller ones, and a huge pink marble mantel sculptured with 
lavish scrollwork. The room was oddly furnished; at the fireplace end there were 
a settee and a lamp table and a few chairs, and at the opposite end an officelike 
clutter of file cabinets, bridge tables piled with newspapers, overfilled 



bookshelves, and a typewriter on a metal stand. Between the two ends of the 
room was a twenty-foot field of brown wall-to-wall carpet, deep and new- 
looking, marked with the trail of a vacuum cleaner. In the center of it, entirely 
alone, a small round table stood holding Life and Look and Scientific American. 

Mrs. Castevet showed them across the brown carpet and seated them on the 
settee; and as they sat Mr. Castevet came in, holding in both hands a small tray 
on which four cocktail glasses ran over with clear pink liquid. Staring at the rims 
of the glasses he shuffled forward across the carpet, looking as if with every next 
step he would trip and fall disastrously. “I seem to have overfilled the glasses,” 
he said. “No, no, don’t get up. Please. Generally I pour these out as precisely as a 
bartender, don’t I, Minnie?” 

Mrs. Castevet said, “Just watch the carpet.” 

“But this evening,” Mr. Castevet continued, coming closer, “I made a little 
too much, and rather than leave the surplus in the blender, I’m afraid I thought 
I...There we are. Please, sit down. Mrs. Woodhouse?” 

Rosemary took a glass, thanked him, and sat. Mrs. Castevet quickly put a 
paper cocktail napkin in her lap. 

“Mr. Woodhouse? A Vodka Blush. Have you ever tasted one?” 

“No,” Guy said, taking one and sitting. 

“Minnie,” Mr. Castevet said. 

“It looks delicious,” Rosemary said, smiling vividly as she wiped the base of 
her glass. 

“They’re very popular in Australia,” Mr. Castevet said. He took the final 
glass and raised it to Rosemary and Guy. “To our guests,” he said. “Welcome to 
our home.” He drank and cocked his head critically, one eye partway closed, the 
tray at his side dripping on the carpet. 

Mrs. Castevet coughed in mid-swallow. “The carpet!” she choked, pointing. 

Mr. Castevet looked down. “Oh dear,” he said, and held the tray up 
uncertainly. 

Mrs. Castevet thrust aside her drink, hurried to her knees, and laid a paper 
napkin carefully over the wetness. “Brand-new carpet,” she said. “Brand-new 
carpet. This man is so clumsy!” 

The Vodka Blushes were tart and quite good. 

“Do you come from Australia?” Rosemary asked, when the carpet had been 
blotted, the tray safely kitchened, and the Castevets seated in straight-backed 
chairs. 

“Oh no,” Mr. Castevet said, “I’m from right here in New York City. I’ve 



been there though. I’ve been everywhere. Literally.” He sipped Vodka Blush, 
sitting with his legs crossed and a hand on his knee. He was wearing black 
loafers with tassels, gray slacks, a white blouse, and a blue-and-gold striped 
ascot. “Every continent, every country,” he said. “Every major city. You name a 
place and I’ve been there. Go ahead. Name a place.” 

Guy said, “Fairbanks, Alaska.” 

“I’ve been there,” Mr. Castevet said. “I’ve been all over Alaska; Fairbanks, 
Juneau, Anchorage, Nome, Seward; I spent four months there in 1938 and I’ve 
made a lot of one-day stop-overs in Fairbanks and Anchorage on my way to 
places in the Far East. I’ve been in small towns in Alaska too; Dillingham and 
Akulurak.” 

“Where are you folks from?” Mrs. Castevet asked, fixing the folds at the 
bosom of her dress. 

“I’m from Omaha,” Rosemary said, “and Guy is from Baltimore.” 

“Omaha is a good city,” Mr. Castevet said. “Baltimore is too.” 

“Did you travel for business reasons?” Rosemary asked him. 

“Business and pleasure both,” he said. “I’m seventy-nine years old and I’ve 
been going one place or another since I was ten. You name it, I’ve been there.” 

“What business were you in?” Guy asked. 

“Just about every business,” Mr. Castevet said. “Wool, sugar, toys, machine 
parts, marine insurance, oil...” 

Abell pinged in the kitchen. “Steak’s ready,” Mrs. Castevet said, standing up 
with her glass in her hand. “Don’t rush your drinks now; take them along to the 
table. Roman, take your pill.” 


“It will end on October third,” Mr. Castevet said; “the day before the Pope gets 
here. No Pope ever visits a city where the newspapers are on strike.” 

“I heard on TV that he’s going to postpone and wait till it’s over,” Mrs. 
Castevet said. 

Guy smiled. “Well,” he said, “that’s show biz.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Castevet laughed, and Guy along with them. Rosemary smiled 
and cut her steak. It was overdone and juiceless, flanked by peas and mashed 
potatoes under flour-laden gravy. 

Still laughing, Mr. Castevet said, “It is, you know! That’s just what it is; 
show biz!” 

“You can say that again,” Guy said. 



“The costumes, the rituals,” Mr. Castevet said; “every religion, not only 
Catholicism. Pageants for the ignorant.” 

Mrs. Castevet said, “I think we’re offending Rosemary.” 

“No, no, not at all,” Rosemary said. 

“You aren’t religious, my dear, are you?” Mr. Castevet asked. 

“I was brought up to be,” Rosemary said, “but now I’m an agnostic. I wasn’t 
offended. Really I wasn’t.” 

“And you, Guy?” Mr. Castevet asked. “Are you an agnostic too?” 

“I guess so,” Guy said. “I don’t see how anyone can be anything else. I 
mean, there’s no absolute proof one way or the other, is there?” 

“No, there isn’t,” Mr. Castevet said. 

Mrs. Castevet, studying Rosemary, said, “You looked uncomfortable before, 
when we were laughing at Guy’s little joke about the Pope.” 

“Well he is the Pope,” Rosemary said. “I guess I’ve been conditioned to have 
respect for him and I still do, even if I don’t think he’s holy any more.” 

“If you don’t think he’s holy,” Mr. Castevet said, “you should have no 
respect for him at all, because he’s going around deceiving people and 
pretending he is holy.” 

“Good point,” Guy said. 

“When I think what they spend on robes and jewels,” Mrs. Castevet said. 

“A good picture of the hypocrisy behind organized religion,” Mr. Castevet 
said, “was given, I thought, in Luther. Did you ever get to play the leading part, 
Guy?” 

“Me? No,” Guy said. 

“Weren’t you Albert Finney’s understudy?” Mr. Castevet asked. 

“No,” Guy said, “the fellow who played Weinand was. I just covered two of 
the smaller parts.” 

“That’s strange,” Mr. Castevet said; “I was quite certain that you were his 
understudy. I remember being struck by a gesture you made and checking in the 
program to see who you were; and I could swear you were listed as Finney’s 
understudy.” 

“What gesture do you mean?” Guy asked. 

“I’m not sure now; a movement of your—” 

“I used to do a thing with my arms when Luther had the fit, a sort of 
involuntary reaching—” 

“Exactly,” Mr. Castevet said. “That’s just what I meant. It had a wonderful 
authenticity to it. In contrast, may I say, to everything Mr. Finney was doing.” 



“Oh, come on now,” Guy said. 

“I thought his performance was considerably overrated,” Mr. Castevet said. 
“I’d be most curious to see what you would have done with the part.” 

Laughing, Guy said, “That makes two of us,” and cast a bright-eyed glance 
at Rosemary. She smiled back, pleased that Guy was pleased; there would be no 
reproofs from him now for an evening wasted talking with Ma and Pa Settle. No, 
Kettle. 

“My father was a theatrical producer,” Mr. Castevet said, “and my early 
years were spent in the company of such people as Mrs. Fiske and Forbes- 
Robertson, Otis Skinner and Modjeska. I tend, therefore, to look for something 
more than mere competence in actors. You have a most interesting inner quality, 
Guy. It appears in your television work too, and it should carry you very far 
indeed; provided, of course, that you get those initial ‘breaks’ upon which even 
the greatest actors are to some degree dependent. Are you preparing for a show 
now?” 

“I’m up for a couple of parts,” Guy said. 

“I can’t believe that you won’t get them,” Mr. Castevet said. 

“I can,” Guy said. 

Mr. Castevet stared at him. “Are you serious?” he asked. 

Dessert was a homemade Boston cream pie that, though better than the steak 
and vegetables, had for Rosemary a peculiar and unpleasant sweetness. Guy, 
however, praised it heartily and ate a second helping. Perhaps he was only 
acting, Rosemary thought; repaying compliments with compliments. 


After dinner Rosemary offered to help with the cleaning up. Mrs. Castevet 
accepted the offer instantly and the two women cleared the table while Guy and 
Mr. Castevet went into the living room. 

The kitchen, opening off the foyer, was small, and made smaller still by the 
miniature greenhouse Terry had mentioned. Some three feet long, it stood on a 
large white table near the room’s one window. Goosenecked lamps leaned close 
around it, their bright bulbs reflecting in the glass and making it blinding white 
rather than transparent. In the remaining space the sink, stove, and refrigerator 
stood close together with cabinets jutting out above them on all sides. Rosemary 
wiped dishes at Mrs. Castevet’s elbow, working diligently and conscientiously in 
the pleasing knowledge that her own kitchen was larger and more graciously 
equipped. “Terry told me about that greenhouse,” she said. 



“Oh yes,” Mrs. Castevet said. “It’s a nice hobby. You ought to do it too.” 

“I’d like to have a spice garden some day,” Rosemary said. “Out of the city, 
of course. If Guy ever gets a movie offer we’re going to grab it and go live in 
Los Angeles. I’m a country girl at heart.” 

“Do you come from a big family?” Mrs. Castevet asked. 

“Yes,” Rosemary said. “I have three brothers and two sisters. I’m the baby.” 

“Are your sisters married?” 

“Yes, they are.” 

Mrs. Castevet pushed a soapy sponge up and down inside a glass. “Do they 
have children?” she asked. 

“One has two and the other has four,” Rosemary said. “At least that was the 
count the last I heard. It could be three and five by now.” 

“Well that’s a good sign for you,” Mrs. Castevet said, still soaping the glass. 
She was a slow and thorough washer. “If your sisters have lots of children, 
chances are you will too. Things like that go in families.” 

“Oh, we’re fertile, all right,” Rosemary said, waiting towel in hand for the 
glass. “My brother Eddie has eight already and he’s only twenty-six.” 

“My goodness!” Mrs. Castevet said. She rinsed the glass and gave it to 
Rosemary. 

“All told I’ve got twenty nieces and nephews,” Rosemary said. “I haven’t 
even seen half of them.” 

“Don’t you go home every once in a while?” Mrs. Castevet asked. 

“No, I don’t,” Rosemary said. “I’m not on the best of terms with my family, 
except one brother. They feel I’m the black sheep.” 

“Oh? How is that?” 

“Because Guy isn’t Catholic, and we didn’t have a church wedding.” 

“Tsk,” Mrs. Castevet said. “Isn’t it something the way people fuss about 
religion? Well, it’s their loss, not yours; don’t you let it bother you any.” 

“That’s more easily said than done,” Rosemary said, putting the glass on a 
shelf. “Would you like me to wash and you wipe for a while?” 

“No, this is fine, dear,” Mrs. Castevet said. 

Rosemary looked outside the door. She could see only the end of the living 
room that was bridge tables and file cabinets; Guy and Mr. Castevet were at the 
other end. A plane of blue cigarette smoke lay motionless in the air. 

“Rosemary?” 

She turned. Mrs. Castevet, smiling, held out a wet plate in a green rubber- 
gloved hand. 



It took almost an hour to do the dishes and pans and silver, although Rosemary 
felt she could have done them alone in less than half that time. When she and 
Mrs. Castevet came out of the kitchen and into the living room, Guy and Mr. 
Castevet were sitting facing each other on the settee, Mr. Castevet driving home 
point after point with repeated strikings of his forefinger against his palm. 

“Now Roman, you stop bending Guy’s ear with your Modjeska stories,” 
Mrs. Castevet said. “He’s only listening ’cause he’s polite.” 

“No, it’s interesting, Mrs. Castevet,” Guy said. 

“You see?” Mr. Castevet said. 

“Minnie,” Mrs. Castevet told Guy. “I’m Minnie and he’s Roman; okay?” 
She looked mock-defiantly at Rosemary. “Okay?” 

Guy laughed. “Okay, Minnie,” he said. 

They talked about the Goulds and the Bruhns and Dubin-and-DeVore; about 
Terry’s sailor brother who had turned out to be in a civilian hospital in Saigon; 
and, because Mr. Castevet was reading a book critical of the Warren Report, 
about the Kennedy assassination. Rosemary, in one of the straight-backed chairs, 
felt oddly out of things, as if the Castevets were old friends of Guy’s to whom 
she had just been introduced. “Do you think it could have been a plot of some 
kind?” Mr. Castevet asked her, and she answered awkwardly, aware that a 
considerate host was drawing a left-out guest into conversation. She excused 
herself and followed Mrs. Castevet’s directions to the bathroom, where there 
were flowered paper towels inscribed For Our Guest and a book called Jokes for 
The John that wasn’t especially funny. 

They left at ten-thirty, saying “Good-by, Roman” and “Thank you, Minnie” 
and shaking hands with an enthusiasm and an implied promise of more such 
evenings together that, on Rosemary’s part, was completely false. Rounding the 
first bend in the hallway and hearing the door close behind them, she blew out a 
relieved sigh and grinned happily at Guy when she saw him doing exactly the 
same. 

“Naow Roman,” he said, working his eyebrows comically, “yew stop 
bendin’ Guy’s ee-yurs with them thar Mojesky sto-rees!” 

Laughing, Rosemary cringed and hushed him, and they ran hand in hand on 
ultra-quiet tiptoes to their own door, which they unlocked, opened, slammed, 
locked, bolted, chained; and Guy nailed it over with imaginary beams, pushed up 
three imaginary boulders, hoisted an imaginary drawbridge, and mopped his 



brow and panted while Rosemary bent over double and laughed into both hands. 

“About that steak,” Guy said. 

“Oh my God!” Rosemary said. “The pie! How did you eat two pieces of it? 
It was weird!” 

“Dear girl,” Guy said, “that was an act of superhuman courage and self- 
sacrifice. I said to myself, 'Ye gods, I’ll bet nobody’s ever asked this old bat for 
seconds on anything in her entire life!’ So I did it.” He waved a hand grandly. 
“Now and again I get these noble urges.” 

They went into the bedroom. “She raises herbs and spices,” Rosemary said, 
“and when they’re full-grown she throws them out the window.” 

“Shh, the walls have ears,” Guy said. “Hey, how about that silverware?” 

“Isn’t that funny?” Rosemary said, working her feet against the floor to 
unshoe them; “only three dinner plates that match, and they’ve got that beautiful, 
beautiful silver.” 

“Let’s be nice; maybe they’ll will it to us.” 

“Let’s be nasty and buy our own. Did you go to the bathroom?” 

“There? No.” 

“Guess what they’ve got in it.” 

“A bidet.” 

“No, Jokes for The John.” 

“No.” 

Rosemary shucked off her dress. “A book on a hook,” she said. “Right next 
to the toilet.” 

Guy smiled and shook his head. He began taking out his cufflinks, standing 
beside the armoire. “Those stories of Roman’s, though,” he said, “were pretty 
damn interesting, actually. I’d never even heard of Forbes-Robertson before, but 
he was a very big star in his day.” He worked at the second link, having trouble 
with it. “I’m going to go over there again tomorrow night and hear some more,” 
he said. 

Rosemary looked at him, disconcerted. “You are?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said, “he asked me.” He held out his hand to her. “Can you get this 
off for me?” 

She went to him and worked at the link, feeling suddenly lost and uncertain. 
“I thought we were going to do something with Jimmy and Tiger,” she said. 

“Was that definite?” he asked. His eyes looked into hers. “I thought we were 
just going to call and see.” 

“It wasn’t definite,” she said. 



He shrugged. “We’ll see them Wednesday or Thursday.” 

She got the link out and held it on her palm. He took it. “Thanks,” he said. 
“You don’t have to come along if you don’t want to; you can stay here.” 

“I think I will,” she said. “Stay here.” She went to the bed and sat down. 

“He knew Henry Irving too,” Guy said. “It’s really terrifically interesting.” 

Rosemary unhooked her stockings. “Why did they take down the pictures,” 
she said. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Their pictures; they took them down. In the living room and in the hallway 
leading back to the bathroom. There are hooks in the wall and clean places. And 
the one picture that is there, over the mantel, doesn’t fit. There are two inches of 
clean at both sides of it.” 

Guy looked at her. “I didn’t notice,” he said. 

“And why do they have all those files and things in the living room?” she 
asked. 

“That he told me,” Guy said, taking off his shirt. “He puts out a newsletter 
for stamp collectors. All over the world. That’s why they get so much foreign 
mail.” 

“Yes, but why in the living room?” Rosemary said. “They have three or four 
other rooms, all with the doors closed. Why doesn’t he use one of those?” 

Guy went to her, shirt in hand, and pressed her nose with a firm fingertip. 
“You’re getting nosier than Minnie,” he said, kissed air at her, and went out to 
the bathroom. 


Ten or fifteen minutes later, while in the kitchen putting on water for coffee, 
Rosemary got the sharp pain in her middle that was the night-before signal of her 
period. She relaxed with one hand against the corner of the stove, letting the pain 
have its brief way, and then she got out a Chemex paper and the can of coffee, 
feeling disappointed and forlorn. 

She was twenty-four and they wanted three children two years apart; but 
Guy “wasn’t ready yet”—nor would he ever be ready, she feared, until he was as 
big as Marlon Brando and Richard Burton put together. Didn’t he know how 
handsome and talented he was, how sure to succeed? So her plan was to get 
pregnant by “accident” the pills gave her headaches, she said, and rubber gadgets 
were repulsive. Guy said that subconsciously she was still a good Catholic, and 
she protested enough to support the explanation. Indulgently he studied the 



calendar and avoided the “dangerous days,” and she said, “No, it’s safe today, 
darling; I’m sure it is.” 

And again this month he had won and she had lost, in this undignified 
contest in which he didn’t even know they were engaged. “Damn!” she said, and 
banged the coffee can down on the stove. Guy, in the den, called, “What 
happened?” 

“I bumped my elbow!” she called back. 

At least she knew now why she had become depressed during the evening. 

Double damn! If they were living together and not married she would have 
been pregnant fifty times by now! 



CHAPTER 7 


THE FOLLOWING EVENING after dinner Guy went over to the Castevets’. 
Rosemary straightened up the kitchen and was debating whether to work on the 
window-seat cushions or get into bed with Manchild in The Promised Land 
when the doorbell rang. It was Mrs. Castevet, and with her another woman, 
short, plump, and smiling, with a Buckley-for-Mayor button on the shoulder of a 
green dress. 

“Hi, dear, we’re not bothering you, are we?” Mrs. Castevet said when 
Rosemary had opened the door. “This is my dear friend Laura-Louise McBurney, 
who lives up on twelve. Laura-Louise, this is Guy’s wife Rosemary.” 

“Hello, Rosemary! Welcome to the Bram!” 

“Laura-Louise just met Guy over to our place and she wanted to meet you 
too, so we came on over. Guy said you were staying in not doing anything. Can 
we come in?” 

With resigned good grace Rosemary showed them into the living room. 

“Oh, you’ve got new chairs,” Mrs. Castevet said. “Aren’t they beautiful!” 

“They came this morning,” Rosemary said. 

“Are you all right, dear? You look worn.” 

“I’m fine,” Rosemary said and smiled. “It’s the first day of my period.” 

“And you’re up and around?” Laura-Louise asked, sitting. “On my first days 
I experienced such pain that I couldn’t move or eat or anything. Dan had to give 
me gin through a straw to kill the pain and we were one-hundred-per-cent 
Temperance at the time, with that one exception.” 

“Girls today take things more in their stride than we did,” Mrs. Castevet 
said, sitting too. “They’re healthier than we were, thanks to vitamins and better 



medical care.” 

Both women had brought identical green sewing bags and, to Rosemary’s 
surprise, were opening them now and taking out crocheting (Laura-Louise) and 
darning (Mrs. Castevet); settling down for a long evening of needlework and 
conversation. “What’s that over there?” Mrs. Castevet asked. “Seat covers?” 

“Cushions for the window seats,” Rosemary said, and thinking Oh all right, 
I will, went over and got the work and brought it back and joined them. 

Laura-Louise said, “You’ve certainly made a tremendous change in the 
apartment, Rosemary.” 

“Oh, before I forget,” Mrs. Castevet said, “this is for you. From Roman and 
me.” She put a small packet of pink tissue paper into Rosemary’s hand, with a 
hardness inside it. 

“For me?” Rosemary asked. “I don’t understand.” 

“It’s just a little present is all,” Mrs. Castevet said, dismissing Rosemary’s 
puzzlement with quick hand-waves. “For moving in.” 

“But there’s no reason for you to...” Rosemary unfolded the leaves of used- 
before tissue paper. Within the pink was Terry’s silver filigree ball-charm and its 
clustered-together neckchain. The smell of the ball’s filling made Rosemary pull 
her head away. 

“It’s real old,” Mrs. Castevet said. “Over three hundred years.” 

“It’s lovely,” Rosemary said, examining the ball and wondering whether she 
should tell that Terry had shown it to her. The moment for doing so slipped by. 

“The green inside is called tannis root,” Mrs. Castevet said. “It’s good luck.” 

Not for Terry, Rosemary thought, and said, “It’s lovely, but I can’t accept 
such a—” 

“You already have,” Mrs. Castevet said, darning a brown sock and not 
looking at Rosemary. “Put it on.” 

Laura-Louise said, “You’ll get used to the smell before you know it.” 

“Go on,” Mrs. Castevet said. 

“Well, thank you,” Rosemary said; and uncertainly she put the chain over 
her head and tucked the ball into the collar of her dress. It dropped down 
between her breasts, cold for a moment and obtrusive. I’ll take it off when they 
go, she thought. 

Laura-Louise said, “A friend of ours made the chain entirely by hand. He’s a 
retired dentist and his hobby is making jewelry out of silver and gold. You’ll 
meet him at Minnie and Roman’s on—on some night soon, I’m sure, because 
they entertain so much. You’ll probably meet all their friends, all our friends.” 



Rosemary looked up from her work and saw Laura-Louise pink with an 
embarrassment that had hurried and confused her last words. Minnie was busy 
darning, unaware. Laura-Louise smiled and Rosemary smiled back. 

“Do you make your own clothes?” Laura-Louise asked. 

“No, I don’t,” Rosemary said, letting the subject be changed. “I try to every 
once in a while but nothing ever hangs right.” 

It turned out to be a fairly pleasant evening. Minnie told some amusing 
stories about her girlhood in Oklahoma, and Laura-Louise showed Rosemary 
two useful sewing tricks and explained feelingly how Buckley, the Conservative 
mayoral candidate, could win the coming election despite the high odds against 
him. 

Guy came back at eleven, quiet and oddly self-contained. He said hello to 
the women and, by Rosemary’s chair, bent and kissed her cheek. Minnie said, 
“Eleven? My land! Come on, Laura-Louise.” Laura-Louise said, “Come and 
visit me any time you want, Rosemary; I’m in twelve F.” The two women closed 
their sewing bags and went quickly away. 

“Were his stories as interesting as last night?” Rosemary asked. 

“Yes,” Guy said. “Did you have a nice time?” 

“All right. I got some work done.” 

“So I see.” 

“I got a present too.” 

She showed him the charm. “It was Terry’s,” she said. “They gave it to her; 
she showed it to me. The police must have—given it back.” 

“She probably wasn’t even wearing it,” Guy said. 

“I’ll bet she was. She was as proud of it as—as if it was the first gift anyone 
had ever given her.” Rosemary lifted the chain off over her head and held the 
chain and the charm on her palm, jiggling them and looking at them. 

“Aren’t you going to wear it?” Guy asked. 

“It smells,” she said. “There’s stuff in it called tannis root.” She held out her 
hand. “From the famous greenhouse.” 

Guy smelled and shrugged. “It’s not bad,” he said. 

Rosemary went into the bedroom and opened a drawer in the vanity where 
she had a tin Louis Sherry box full of odds and ends. “Tannis, anybody?” she 
asked herself in the mirror, and put the charm in the box, closed it, and closed 
the drawer. 

Guy, in the doorway, said, “If you took it, you ought to wear it.” 



That night Rosemary awoke and found Guy sitting beside her smoking in the 
dark. She asked him what was the matter. “Nothing,” he said. “A little insomnia, 
that’s all.” 

Roman’s stories of old-time stars, Rosemary thought, might have depressed 
him by reminding him that his own career was lagging behind Henry Irving’s 
and Forbes-Whosit’s. His going back for more of the stories might have been a 
form of masochism. 

She touched his arm and told him not to worry. 

“About what?” 

“About anything.” 

“All right,” he said, “I won’t.” 

“You’re the greatest,” she said. “You know? You are. And it’s all going to 
come out right. You’re going to have to learn karate to get rid of the 
photographers.” 

He smiled in the glow of his cigarette. 

“Any day now,” she said. “Something big. Something worthy of you.” 

“I know,” he said. “Go to sleep, honey.” 

“Okay. Watch the cigarette.” 

“I will.” 

“Wake me if you can’t sleep.” 

“Sure.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you, Ro.” 


A day or two later Guy brought home a pair of tickets for the Saturday night 
performance of The Fantasticks, given to him, he explained, by Dominick, his 
vocal coach. Guy had seen the show years before when it first opened; Rosemary 
had always been meaning to see it. “Go with Hutch,” Guy said; “it’ll give me a 
chance to work on the Wait Until Dark scene.” 

Hutch had seen it too, though, so Rosemary went with Joan Jellico, who 
confided during dinner at the Bijou that she and Dick were separating, no longer 
having anything in common except their address. The news upset Rosemary. For 
days Guy had been distant and preoccupied, wrapped in something he would 
neither put aside nor share. Had Joan and Dick’s estrangement begun in the same 



way? She grew angry at Joan, who was wearing too much make-up and 
applauding too loudly in the small theater. No wonder she and Dick could find 
nothing in common; she was loud and vulgar, he was reserved, sensitive; they 
should never have married in the first place. 

When Rosemary came home Guy was coming out of the shower, more 
vivacious and there than he had been all week. Rosemary’s spirits leaped. The 
show had been even better than she expected, she told him, and bad news, Joan 
and Dick were separating. They really were birds of completely different 
feathers though, weren’t they? How had the Wait Until Dark scene gone? Great. 
He had it down cold. 

“Damn that tannis root,” Rosemary said. The whole bedroom smelled of it. 
The bitter prickly odor had even found its way into the bathroom. She got a 
piece of aluminum foil from the kitchen and wound the charm in a tight triple 
wrapping, twisting the ends to seal them. 

“It’ll probably lose its strength in a few days,” Guy said. 

“It better,” Rosemary said, spraying the air with a deodorant bomb. “If it 
doesn’t, I’m going to throw it away and tell Minnie I lost it.” 

They made love—Guy was wild and driving—and later, through the wall, 
Rosemary heard a party in progress at Minnie and Roman’s; the same flat 
unmusical singing she had heard the last time, almost like religious chanting, and 
the same flute or clarinet weaving in and around and underneath it. 


Guy kept his keyed-up vivacity all through Sunday, building shelves and shoe 
racks in the bedroom closets and inviting a bunch of Luther people over for Moo 
Goo Gai Woodhouse; and on Monday he painted the shelves and shoe racks and 
stained a bench Rosemary had found in a thrift shop, canceling his session with 
Dominick and keeping his ear stretched for the phone, which he caught every 
time before the first ring was finished. At three in the afternoon it rang again, 
and Rosemary, trying out a different arrangement of the living room chairs, 
heard him say, “Oh God, no. Oh, the poor guy.” 

She went to the bedroom door. 

“Oh God,” Guy said. 

He was sitting on the bed, the phone in one hand and a can of Red Devil 
paint remover in the other. He didn’t look at her. “And they don’t have any idea 
what’s causing it?” he said. “My God, that’s awful, just awful.” He listened, and 
straightened as he sat. “Yes, I am,” he said. And then, “Yes, I would. I’d hate to 



get it this way, but I—” He listened again. “Well, you’d have to speak to Allan 
about that end of it,” he said—Allan Stone, his agent—“but I’m sure there won’t 
be any problem, Mr. Weiss, not as far as we’re concerned.” 

He had it. The Something Big. Rosemary held her breath, waiting. 

“Thank you, Mr. Weiss,” Guy said. “And will you let me know if there’s any 
news? Thanks.” 

He hung up and shut his eyes. He sat motionless, his hand staying on the 
phone. He was pale and dummylike, a Pop Art wax statue with real clothes and 
props, real phone, real can of paint remover. 

“Guy?” Rosemary said. 

He opened his eyes and looked at her. 

“What is it?” she asked. 

He blinked and came alive. “Donald Baumgart,” he said. “He’s gone blind. 
He woke up yesterday and—he can’t see.” 

“Oh no,” Rosemary said. 

“He tried to hang himself this morning. He’s in Bellevue now, under 
sedation.” 

They looked painfully at each other. 

“I’ve got the part,” Guy said. “It’s a hell of a way to get it.” He looked at the 
paint remover in his hand and put it on the night table. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve 
got to get out and walk around.” He stood up. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get outside 
and absorb this.” 

“I understand, go ahead,” Rosemary said, standing back from the doorway. 

He went as he was, down the hall and out the door, letting it swing closed 
after him with its own soft slam. 

She went into the living room, thinking of poor Donald Baumgart and lucky 
Guy; lucky she-and-Guy, with the good part that would get attention even if the 
show folded, would lead to other parts, to movies maybe, to a house in Los 
Angeles, a spice garden, three children two years apart. Poor Donald Baumgart 
with his clumsy name that he didn’t change. He must have been good, to have 
won out over Guy, and there he was in Bellevue, blind and wanting to kill 
himself, under sedation. 

Kneeling on a window seat, Rosemary looked out the side of its bay and 
watched the house’s entrance far below, waiting to see Guy come out. When 
would rehearsals begin? she wondered. She would go out of town with him, of 
course; what fun it would be! Boston? Philadelphia? Washington would be 
exciting. She had never been there. While Guy was rehearsing afternoons, she 



could sightsee; and evenings, after the performance, everyone would meet in a 
restaurant or club to gossip and exchange rumors... 

She waited and watched but he didn’t come out. He must have used the 
Fifty-fifth Street door. 


Now, when he should have been happy, he was dour and troubled, sitting with 
nothing moving except his cigarette hand and his eyes. His eyes followed her 
around the apartment; tensely, as if she were dangerous. “What’s wrong?” she 
asked a dozen times. 

“Nothing,” he said. “Don’t you have your sculpture class today?” 

“I haven’t gone in two months.” 

“Why don’t you go?” 

She went; tore away old plasticine, reset the armature, and began anew, 
doing a new model among new students. “Where’ve you been?” the instructor 
asked. He had eyeglasses and an Adam’s apple and made miniatures of her torso 
without watching his hands. 

“In Zanzibar,” she said. 

“Zanzibar is no more,” he said, smiling nervously. “It’s Tanzania.” 

One afternoon she went down to Macy’s and Gimbels, and when she came 
home there were roses in the kitchen, roses in the living room, and Guy coming 
out of the bedroom with one rose and a forgive-me smile, like a reading he had 
once done for her of Chance Wayne in Sweet Bird. 

“I’ve been a living turd,” he said. “It’s from sitting around hoping that 
Baumgart won’t regain his sight, which is what I’ve been doing, rat that I am.” 

“That’s natural,” she said. “You’re bound to feel two ways about—” 

“Listen,” he said, pushing the rose to her nose, “even if this thing falls 
through, even if I’m Charley Cresta Blanca for the rest of my days, I’m going to 
stop giving you the short end of the stick.” 

“You haven’t—” 

“Yes I have. I’ve been so busy tearing my hair out over my career that I 
haven’t given Thought One to yours. Let’s have a baby, okay? Let’s have three, 
one at a time.” 

She looked at him. 

“A baby,” he said. “You know. Goo, goo? Diapers? Waa, waa?” 

“Do you mean it?” she asked. 

“Sure I mean it,” he said. “I even figured out the right time to start. Next 



Monday and Tuesday. Red circles on the calendar, please.” 

“You really mean it, Guy?” she asked, tears in her eyes. 

“No, I’m kidding,” he said. “Sure I mean it. Look, Rosemary, for God’s sake 
don’t cry, all right? Please. It’s going to upset me very much if you cry, so stop 
right now, all right?” 

“All right,” she said. “I won’t cry.” 

“I really went rose-nutty, didn’t I?” he said, looking around brightly. 
“There’s a bunch in the bedroom too.” 



CHAPTER 8 


SHE WENT to upper Broadway for swordfish steaks and across town to 
Lexington Avenue for cheeses; not because she couldn’t get swordfish steaks 
and cheeses right there in the neighborhood but simply because on that snappy 
bright-blue morning she wanted to be all over the city, walking briskly with her 
coat flying, drawing second glances for her prettiness, impressing tough clerks 
with the precision and know-how of her orders. It was Monday, October 4th, the 
day of Pope Paul’s visit to the city, and the sharing of the event made people 
more open and communicative than they ordinarily were; How nice it is, 
Rosemary thought, that the whole city is happy on a day when I’m so happy. 

She followed the Pope’s rounds on television during the afternoon, moving 
the set out from the wall of the den (soon nursery) and turning it so she could 
watch from the kitchen while readying the fish and vegetables and salad greens. 
His speech at the UN moved her, and she was sure it would help ease the 
Vietnam situation. “War never again,” he said; wouldn’t his words give pause to 
even the most hard-headed statesman? 

At four-thirty, while she was setting the table before the fireplace, the 
telephone rang. 

“Rosemary? How are you?” 

“Fine,” she said. “How are you?” It was Margaret, the older of her two 
sisters. 

“Fine,” Margaret said. 

“Where are you?” 

“In Omaha.” 

They had never got on well. Margaret had been a sullen, resentful girl, too 



often used by their mother as the caretaker of the younger children. To be called 
by her like this was strange; strange and frightening. 

“Is everyone all right?” Rosemary asked. Someone’s dead, she thought. 
Who? Ma? Pa? Brian? 

“Yes, everyone’s fine.” 

“They are?” 

“Yes. Are you?” 

“Yes; I said I was.” 

“I’ve had the funniest feeling all day long, Rosemary. That something 
happened to you. Like an accident or something. That you were hurt. Maybe in 
the hospital.” 

“Well, I’m not,” Rosemary said, and laughed. “I’m fine. Really I am.” 

“It was such a strong feeling,” Margaret said. “I was sure something had 
happened. Finally Gene said why don’t I call you and find out.” 

“How is he?” 

“Fine.” 

“And the children?” 

“Oh, the usual scrapes and scratches, but they’re fine too. I’ve got another 
one on the way, you know.” 

“No, I didn’t know. That’s wonderful. When is it due?” We’ll have one on 
the way soon too. 

“The end of March. How’s your husband, Rosemary?” 

“He’s fine. He’s got an important part in a new play that’s going into 
rehearsal soon.” 

“Say, did you get a good look at the Pope?” Margaret asked. “There must be 
terrific excitement there.” 

“There is,” Rosemary said. “I’ve been watching it on television. It’s in 
Omaha too, isn’t it?” 

“Not live? You didn’t go out and see him live?” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

“Honest to goodness, Rosemary,” Margaret said. “Do you know Ma and Pa 
were going to fly there to see him but they couldn’t because there’s going to be a 
strike vote and Pa’s seconding the motion? Lots of people did fly, though; the 
Donovans, and Dot and Sandy Wallingford; and you’re right there, living there, 
and didn’t go out and see him?” 



“Religion doesn’t mean as much to me now as it did back home,” Rosemary 
said. 

“Well,” Margaret said, “I guess that’s inevitable,” and Rosemary heard, 
unspoken, when you’re married to a Protestant. She said, “It was nice of you to 
call, Margaret. There’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ve never been healthier 
or happier.” 

“It was such a strong feeling,” Margaret said. “From the minute I woke up. 
I’m so used to taking care of you little brats...” 

“Give my love to everyone, will you? And tell Brian to answer my letter.” 

“I will. Rosemary—” 

“Yes?” 

“I still have the feeling. Stay home tonight, will you?” 

“That’s just what we’re planning to do,” Rosemary said, looking over at the 
partially set table. 

“Good,” Margaret said. “Take care of yourself.” 

“I will,” Rosemary said. “You too, Margaret.” 

“I will. Good-by.” 

“Good-by.” 

She went back to setting the table, feeling pleasantly sad and nostalgic for 
Margaret and Brian and the other kids, for Omaha and the irretrievable past. 

With the table set, she bathed; then powdered and perfumed herself, did her 
eyes and lips and hair, and put on a pair of burgundy silk lounging pajamas that 
Guy had given her the previous Christmas. 


He came home late, after six. “Mmm,” he said, kissing her, “you look good 
enough to eat. Shall we? Damn!” 

“What?” 

“I forgot the pie.” 

He had told her not to make a dessert; he would bring home his absolute all- 
time favorite, a Horn and Hardart pumpkin pie. 

“I could kick myself,” he said. “I passed two of those damn retail stores; not 
one but two.” 

“It’s all right,” Rosemary said. “We can have fruit and cheese. That’s the 
best dessert anyway, really.” 

“It is not; Horn and Hardart pumpkin pie is.” 

He went in to wash up and she put a tray of stuffed mushrooms into the oven 



and mixed the salad dressing. 

In a few minutes Guy came to the kitchen door, buttoning the collar of a blue 
velour shirt. He was bright-eyed and a bit on edge, the way he had been the first 
time they slept together, when he knew it was going to happen. It pleased 
Rosemary to see him that way. 

“Your pal the Pope really loused up traffic today,” he said. 

“Did you see any of the television?” she asked. “They’ve had fantastic 
coverage.” 

“I got a glimpse up at Allan’s,” he said. “Glasses in the freezer?” 

“Yes. He made a wonderful speech at the UN. 'War never again,’ he told 
them.” 

“Rotsa ruck. Hey, those look good.” 

They had Gibsons and the stuffed mushrooms in the living room. Guy put 
crumpled newspaper and sticks of kindling on the fireplace grate, and two big 
chunks of cannel coal. “Here goes nothing,” he said, and struck a match and lit 
the paper. It flamed high and caught the kindling. Dark smoke began spilling out 
over the front of the mantel and up toward the ceiling. “Good grief,” Guy said, 
and groped inside the fireplace. “The paint, the paint!” Rosemary cried. 

He got the flue opened; and the air conditioner, set at exhaust, drew out the 
smoke. 

“Nobody, but nobody, has a fire tonight,” Guy said. 

Rosemary, kneeling with her drink and staring into the spitting flame- 
wrapped coals, said, “Isn’t it gorgeous? I hope we have the coldest winter in 
eighty years.” 

Guy put on Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter. 

They were halfway through the swordfish when the doorbell rang. “Shit,” 
Guy said. He got up, tossed down his napkin, and went to answer it. Rosemary 
cocked her head and listened. 

The door opened and Minnie said, “Hi, Guy!” and more that was 
unintelligible. Oh, no, Rosemary thought. Don’t let her in, Guy. Not now, not 
tonight. 

Guy spoke, and then Minnie again: “...extra. We don’t need them.” Guy 
again and Minnie again. Rosemary eased out held-in breath; it didn’t sound as if 
she was coming in, thank God. 

The door closed and was chained (Good!) and bolted (Good!). Rosemary 
watched and waited, and Guy sidled into the archway, smiling smugly, with both 
hands behind his back. “Who says there’s nothing to ESP?” he said, and coming 



toward the table brought forth his hands with two white custard cups sitting one 
on each palm. “Madame and Monsieur shall have ze dessairt after all,” he said, 
setting one cup by Rosemary’s wineglass and the other by his own. “Mousse au 
chocolat,” he said, “or ‘chocolate mouse,’ as Minnie calls it. Of course with her 
it could be chocolate mouse, so eat with care.” 

Rosemary laughed happily. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “It’s what / was 
going to make.” 

“See?” Guy said, sitting. “ESP.” He replaced his napkin and poured more 
wine. 

“I was afraid she was going to come charging in and stay all evening,” 
Rosemary said, forking up carrots. 

“No,” Guy said, “she just wanted us to try her chocolate mouse, seein’ as 
how it’s one of her speci-a/-ities.” 

“It looks good.” 

“It does, doesn’t it.” 

The cups were filled with peaked swirls of chocolate. Guy’s was topped with 
a sprinkling of chopped nuts, and Rosemary’s with a half walnut. 

“It’s sweet of her, really,” Rosemary said. “We shouldn’t make fun of her.” 

“You’re right,” Guy said, “you’re right.” 


The mousse was excellent, but it had a chalky undertaste that reminded 
Rosemary of blackboards and grade school. Guy tried but could find no 
“undertaste” at all, chalky or otherwise. Rosemary put her spoon down after two 
swallows. Guy said, “Aren’t you going to finish it? That’s silly, honey; there’s no 
‘undertaste.’” 

Rosemary said there was. 

“Come on,” Guy said, “the old bat slaved all day over a hot stove; eat it.” 

“But I don’t like it,” Rosemary said. 

“It’s delicious.” 

“You can have mine.” 

Guy scowled. “All right, don’t eat it,” he said; “you don’t wear the charm 
she gave you, you might as well not eat her dessert too.” 

Confused, Rosemary said, “What does one thing have to do with the other?” 

“They’re both examples of—well, unkindness, that’s all.” Guy said. “Two 
minutes ago you said we should stop making fun of her. That’s a form of making 
fun too, accepting something and then not using it.” 



“Oh—” Rosemary picked up her spoon. “If it’s going to turn into a big scene 
—” She took a full spoonful of the mousse and thrust it into her mouth. 

“It isn’t going to turn into a big scene,” Guy said. “Look, if you really can’t 
stand it, don’t eat it.” 

“Delicious,” Rosemary said, full-mouthed and taking another spoonful, “no 
undertaste at all. Turn the records over.” 

Guy got up and went to the record player. Rosemary doubled her napkin in 
her lap and plopped two spoonfuls of the mousse into it, and another half¬ 
spoonful for good measure. She folded the napkin closed and then showily 
scraped clean the inside of the cup and swallowed down the scrapings as Guy 
came back to the table. “There, Daddy,” she said, tilting the cup toward him. “Do 
I get a gold star on my chart?” 

“Two of them,” he said. “I’m sorry if I was stuffy.” 

“You were.” 

“I’m sorry.” He smiled. 

Rosemary melted. “You’re forgiven,” she said. “It’s nice that you’re 
considerate of old ladies. It means you’ll be considerate of me when I’m one.” 

They had coffee and creme de menthe. 

“Margaret called this afternoon,” Rosemary said. 

“Margaret?” 

“My sister.” 

“Oh. Everything okay?” 

“Yes. She was afraid something had happened to me. She had a feeling.” 

“Oh?” 

“We’re to stay home tonight.” 

“Drat. And I made a reservation at Nedick’s. In the Orange Room.” 

“You’ll have to cancel it.” 

“How come you turned out sane when the rest of your family is nutty?” 


The first wave of dizziness caught Rosemary at the kitchen sink as she scraped 
the uneaten mousse from her napkin into the drain. She swayed for a moment, 
then blinked and frowned. Guy, in the den, said, “He isn’t there yet. Christ, what 
a mob.” The Pope at Yankee Stadium. 

“I’ll be in in a minute,” Rosemary said. 

Shaking her head to clear it, she rolled the napkins up inside the tablecloth 
and put the bundle aside for the hamper. She put the stopper in the drain, turned 



on the hot water, squeezed in some Joy, and began loading in the dishes and 
pans. She would do them in the morning, let them soak overnight. 

The second wave came as she was hanging up the dish towel. It lasted 
longer, and this time the room turned slowly around and her legs almost slued 
out from under her. She hung on to the edge of the sink. 

When it was over she said “Oh boy,” and added up two Gibsons, two glasses 
of wine (or had it been three?), and one creme de menthe. No wonder. 

She made it to the doorway of the den and kept her footing through the next 
wave by holding on to the knob with one hand and the jamb with the other. 

“What is it?” Guy asked, standing up anxiously. 

“Dizzy,” she said, and smiled. 

He snapped off the TV and came to her, took her arm and held her surely 
around the waist. “No wonder,” he said. “All that booze. You probably had an 
empty stomach, too.” 

He helped her toward the bedroom and, when her legs buckled, caught her 
up and carried her. He put her down on the bed and sat beside her, taking her 
hand and stroking her forehead sympathetically. She closed her eyes. The bed 
was a raft that floated on gentle ripples, tilting and swaying pleasantly. “Nice,” 
she said. 

“Sleep is what you need,” Guy said, stroking her forehead. “A good night’s 
sleep.” 

“We have to make a baby.” 

“We will. Tomorrow. There’s plenty of time.” 

“Missing the mass.” 

“Sleep. Get a good night’s sleep. Go on...” 

“Just a nap,” she said, and was sitting with a drink in her hand on President 
Kennedy’s yacht. It was sunny and breezy, a perfect day for a cruise. The 
President, studying a large map, gave terse and knowing instructions to a Negro 
mate. 

Guy had taken off the top of her pajamas. “Why are you taking them off?” 
she asked. 

“To make you more comfortable,” he said. 

“I’m comfortable.” 

“Sleep, Ro.” 

He undid the snaps at her side and slowly drew off the bottoms. Thought she 
was asleep and didn’t know. Now she had nothing on at all except a red bikini, 
but the other women on the yacht—Jackie Kennedy, Pat Lawford, and Sarah 



Churchill—were wearing bikinis too, so it was all right, thank goodness. The 
President was in his Navy uniform. He had completely recovered from the 
assassination and looked better than ever. Hutch was standing on the dock with 
armloads of weather-forecasting equipment. “Isn’t Hutch coming with us?” 
Rosemary asked the President. 

“Catholics only,” he said, smiling. “I wish we weren’t bound by these 
prejudices, but unfortunately we are.” 

“But what about Sarah Churchill?” Rosemary asked. She turned to point, but 
Sarah Churchill was gone and the family was there in her place: Ma, Pa, and 
everybody, with the husbands, wives, and children. Margaret was pregnant, and 
so were Jean and Dodie and Ernestine. 

Guy was taking off her wedding ring. She wondered why, but was too tired 
to ask. “Sleep,” she said, and slept. 

It was the first time the Sistine Chapel had been opened to the public and she 
was inspecting the ceiling on a new elevator that carried the visitor through the 
chapel horizontally, making it possible to see the frescoes exactly as 
Michelangelo, painting them, had seen them. How glorious they were! She saw 
God extending his finger to Adam, giving him the divine spark of life; and the 
underside of a shelf partly covered with gingham contact paper as she was 
carried backward through the linen closet. “Easy,” Guy said, and another man 
said, “You’ve got her too high.” 

“Typhoon!” Hutch shouted from the dock amid all his weather-forecasting 
equipment. “Typhoon! It killed fifty-five people in London and it’s heading this 
way!” And Rosemary knew he was right. She must warn the President. The ship 
was heading for disaster. 

But the President was gone. Everyone was gone. The deck was infinite and 
bare, except for, far away, the Negro mate holding the wheel unremittingly on its 
course. 

Rosemary went to him and saw at once that he hated all white people, hated 
her. “You’d better go down below, Miss,” he said, courteous but hating her, not 
even waiting to hear the warning she had brought. 

Below was a huge ballroom where on one side a church burned fiercely and 
on the other a black-bearded man stood glaring at her. In the center was a bed. 
She went to it and lay down, and was suddenly surrounded by naked men and 
women, ten or a dozen, with Guy among them. They were elderly, the women 
grotesque and slack-breasted. Minnie and her friend Laura-Louise were there, 
and Roman in a black miter and a black silk robe. With a thin black wand he was 



drawing designs on her body, dipping the wand’s point in a cup of red held for 
him by a sun-browned man with a white moustache. The point moved back and 
forth across her stomach and down ticklingly to the insides of her thighs. The 
naked people were chanting—flat, unmusical, foreign-tongued syllables—and a 
flute or clarinet accompanied them. “She’s awake, she sees!” Guy whispered to 
Minnie. He was large-eyed, tense. “She don’t see,” Minnie said. “As long as she 
ate the mouse she can’t see nor hear. She’s like dead. Now sing.” 

Jackie Kennedy came into the ballroom in an exquisite gown of ivory satin 
embroidered with pearls. “I’m so sorry to hear you aren’t feeling well,” she said, 
hurrying to Rosemary’s side. 

Rosemary explained about the mouse-bite, minimizing it so Jackie wouldn’t 
worry. 

“You’d better have your legs tied down,” Jackie said, “in case of 
convulsions.” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” Rosemary said. “There’s always a chance it was rabid.” 
She watched with interest as white-smocked interns tied her legs, and her arms 
too, to the four bedposts. 

“If the music bothers you,” Jackie said, “let me know and I’ll have it 
stopped.” 

“Oh, no,” Rosemary said. “Please don’t change the program on my account. 
It doesn’t bother me at all, really it doesn’t.” 

Jackie smiled warmly at her. “Try to sleep,” she said. “We’ll be waiting up 
on deck.” She withdrew, her satin gown whispering. 

Rosemary slept a while, and then Guy came in and began making love to 
her. He stroked her with both hands—a long, relishing stroke that began at her 
bound wrists, slid down over her arms, breasts, and loins, and became a 
voluptuous tickling between her legs. He repeated the exciting stroke again and 
again, his hands hot and sharp-nailed, and then, when she was ready-ready- 
more-than-ready, he slipped a hand in under her buttocks, raised them, lodged 
his hardness against her, and pushed it powerfully in. Bigger he was than always; 
painfully, wonderfully big. He lay forward upon her, his other arm sliding under 
her back to hold her, his broad chest crushing her breasts. (He was wearing, 
because it was to be a costume party, a suit of coarse leathery armor.) Brutally, 
rhythmically, he drove his new hugeness. She opened her eyes and looked into 
yellow furnace-eyes, smelled sulphur and tannis root, felt wet breath on her 
mouth, heard lust-grunts and the breathing of onlookers. 

This is no dream, she thought. This is real, this is happening. Protest woke in 



her eyes and throat, but something covered her face, smothering her in a sweet 
stench. 

The hugeness kept driving in her, the leathery body banging itself against her 
again and again and again. 


The Pope came in with a suitcase in his hand and a coat over his arm. “Jackie 
tells me you’ve been bitten by a mouse,” he said. 

“Yes,” Rosemary said. “That’s why I didn’t come see you.” She spoke sadly, 
so he wouldn’t suspect she had just had an orgasm. 

“That’s all right,” he said. “We wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your 
health.” 

“Am I forgiven, Father?” she asked. 

“Absolutely,” he said. He held out his hand for her to kiss the ring. Its stone 
was a silver filigree ball less than an inch in diameter; inside it, very tiny, Anna 
Maria Alberghetti sat waiting. 

Rosemary kissed it and the Pope hurried out to catch his plane. 



CHAPTER 9 


“HEY, IT’S AFTER NINE,” Guy said, shaking her shoulder. 

She pushed his hand away and turned over onto her stomach. “Five 
minutes,” she said, deep in the pillow. 

“No,” he said, and yanked her hair. “I’ve got to be at Dominick’s at ten.” 

“Eat out.” 

“The hell I will.” He slapped her behind through the blanket. 

Everything came back: the dreams, the drinks, Minnie’s chocolate mousse, 
the Pope, that awful moment of not-dreaming. She turned back over and raised 
herself on her arms, looking at Guy. He was lighting a cigarette, sleep-rumpled, 
needing a shave. He had pajamas on. She was nude. 

“What time is it?” she asked. 

“Ten after nine.” 

“What time did I go to sleep?” She sat up. 

“About eight-thirty,” he said. “And you didn’t go to sleep, honey; you passed 
out. From now on you get cocktails or wine, not cocktails and wine.” 

“The dreams I had,” she said, rubbing her forehead and closing her eyes. 
“President Kennedy, the Pope, Minnie and Roman...” She opened her eyes and 
saw scratches on her left breast; two parallel hairlines of red running down into 
the nipple. Her thighs stung; she pushed the blanket from them and saw more 
scratches, seven or eight going this way and that. 

“Don’t yell,” Guy said. “I already filed them down.” He showed short 
smooth fingernails. 

Rosemary looked at him uncomprehendingly. 

“I didn’t want to miss Baby Night,” he said. 



“You mean you—” 

“And a couple of my nails were ragged.” 

“While I was—out?” 

He nodded and grinned. “It was kind of fun,” he said, “in a necrophile sort of 
way.” 

She looked away, her hands pulling the blanket back over her thighs. “I 
dreamed someone was—raping me,” she said. “I don’t know who. Someone— 
unhuman.” 

“Thanks a lot,” Guy said. 

“You were there, and Minnie and Roman, other people.. .It was some kind of 
ceremony.” 

“I tried to wake you,” he said, “but you were out like a light.” 

She turned further away and swung her legs out on the other side of the bed. 

“What’s the matter?” Guy asked. 

“Nothing,” she said, sitting there, not looking around at him. “I guess I feel 
funny about your doing it that way, with me unconscious.” 

“I didn’t want to miss the night,” he said. 

“We could have done it this morning or tonight. Last night wasn’t the only 
split second in the whole month. And even if it had been...” 

“I thought you would have wanted me to,” he said, and ran a finger up her 
back. 

She squirmed away from it. “It’s supposed to be shared, not one awake and 
one asleep,” she said. Then: “Oh, I guess I’m being silly.” She got up and went 
to the closet for her housecoat. 

“I’m sorry I scratched you,” Guy said. “I was a wee bit loaded myself.” 

She made breakfast and, when Guy had gone, did the sinkful of dishes and 
put the kitchen to rights. She opened windows in the living room and bedroom— 
the smell of last night’s fire still lingered in the apartment—made the bed, and 
took a shower; a long one, first hot and then cold. She stood capless and 
immobile under the downpour, waiting for her head to clear and her thoughts to 
find an order and conclusion. 

Had last night really been, as Guy had put it, Baby Night? Was she now, at 
this moment, actually pregnant? Oddly enough, she didn’t care. She was 
unhappy—whether or not it was silly to be so. Guy had taken her without her 
knowledge, had made love to her as a mindless body (“kind of fun in a 
necrophile sort of way”) rather than as the complete mind-and-body person she 
was; and had done so, moreover, with a savage gusto that had produced 



scratches, aching soreness, and a nightmare so real and intense that she could 
almost see on her stomach the designs Roman had drawn with his red-dipped 
wand. She scrubbed soap on herself vigorously, resentfully. True, he had done it 
for the best motive in the world, to make a baby, and true too he had drunk as 
much as she had; but she wished that no motive and no number of drinks could 
have enabled him to take her that way, taking only her body without her soul or 
self or she-ness—whatever it was he presumably loved. Now, looking back over 
the past weeks and months, she felt a disturbing presence of overlooked signals 
just beyond memory, signals of a shortcoming in his love for her, of a disparity 
between what he said and what he felt. He was an actor; could anyone know 
when an actor was true and not acting? 

It would take more than a shower to wash away these thoughts. She turned 
the water off and, between both hands, pressed out her streaming hair. 

On the way out to shop she rang the Castevets’ doorbell and returned the 
cups from the mousse. “Did you like it, dear?” Minnie asked. “I think I put a 
little too much cream de cocoa in it.” 

“It was delicious,” Rosemary said. “You’ll have to give me the recipe.” 

“I’d love to. You going marketing? Would you do me a teeny favor? Six 
eggs and a small Instant Sanka; I’ll pay you later. I hate going out for just one or 
two things, don’t you?” 


There was distance now between her and Guy, but he seemed not to be aware of 
it. His play was going into rehearsal November first— Don’t I Know You From 
Somewhere ? was the name of it—and he spent a great deal of time studying his 
part, practicing the use of the crutches and leg-braces it called for, and visiting 
the Highbridge section of the Bronx, the play’s locale. They had dinner with 
friends more evenings than not; when they didn’t, they made natural-sounding 
conversation about furniture and the ending-any-day-now newspaper strike and 
the World Series. They went to a preview of a new musical and a screening of a 
new movie, to parties and the opening of a friend’s exhibit of metal 
constructions. Guy seemed never to be looking at her, always at a script or TV or 
at someone else. He was in bed and asleep before she was. One evening he went 
to the Castevets’ to hear more of Roman’s theater stories, and she stayed in the 
apartment and watched Funny Face on TV. 

“Don’t you think we ought to talk about it?” she said the next morning at 
breakfast. 



“About what?” 

She looked at him; he seemed genuinely unknowing. “The conversations 
we’ve been making,” she said. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The way you haven’t been looking at me.” 

“What are you talking about? I’ve been looking at you.” 

“No you haven’t.” 

“I have so. Honey, what is it? What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing. Never mind.” 

“No, don’t say that. What is it? What’s bothering you?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Ah look, honey, I know I’ve been kind of preoccupied, with the part and the 
crutches and all; is that it? Well gee whiz, Ro, it’s important, you know? But it 
doesn’t mean I don’t love you, just because I’m not riveting you with a 
passionate gaze all the time. I’ve got to think about practical matters too.” It was 
awkward and charming and sincere, like his playing of the cowboy in Bus Stop. 

“All right,” Rosemary said. “I’m sorry I’m being pesty.” 

“You? You couldn’t be pesty if you tried.” 

He leaned across the table and kissed her. 


Hutch had a cabin near Brewster where he spent occasional weekends. 
Rosemary called him and asked if she might use it for three or four days, 
possibly a week. “Guy’s getting into his new part,” she explained, “and I really 
think it’ll be easier for him with me out of the way.” 

“It’s yours,” Hutch said, and Rosemary went down to his apartment on 
Lexington Avenue and Twenty-fourth Street to pick up the key. 

She looked in first at a delicatessen where the clerks were friends from her 
own days in the neighborhood, and then she went up to Hutch’s apartment, 
which was small and dark and neat as a pin, with an inscribed photo of Winston 
Churchill and a sofa that had belonged to Madame Pompadour. Hutch was 
sitting barefoot between two bridge tables, each with its typewriter and piles of 
paper. His practice was to write two books at once, turning to the second when 
he struck a snag on the first, and back to the first when he struck a snag on the 
second. 

“I’m really looking forward to it,” Rosemary said, sitting on Madame 
Pompadour’s sofa. “I suddenly realized the other day that I’ve never been alone 



in my whole life—not for more than a few hours, that is. The idea of three or 
four days is heaven.” 

“A chance to sit quietly and find out who you are; where you’ve been and 
where you’re going.” 

“Exactly.” 

“All right, you can stop forcing that smile,” Hutch said. “Did he hit you with 
a lamp?” 

“He didn’t hit me with anything,” Rosemary said. “It’s a very difficult part, a 
crippled boy who pretends that he’s adjusted to his crippled-ness. He’s got to 
work with crutches and leg-braces, and naturally he’s preoccupied and—and, 
well, preoccupied.” 

“I see,” Hutch said. “We’ll change the subject. The News had a lovely 
mndown the other day of all the gore we missed during the strike. Why didn’t 
you tell me you’d had another suicide up there at Happy House?” 

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Rosemary asked. 

“No, you didn’t,” Hutch said. 

“It was someone we knew. The girl I told you about; the one who’d been a 
dmg addict and was rehabilitated by the Castevets, these people who live on our 
floor. I’m sure I told you that.” 

“The girl who was going to the basement with you.” 

“That’s right.” 

“They didn’t rehabilitate her very successfully, it would seem. Was she 
living with them?” 

“Yes,” Rosemary said. “We’ve gotten to know them fairly well since it 
happened. Guy goes over there once in a while to hear stories about the theater. 
Mr. Castevet’s father was a producer around the turn of the century.” 

“I shouldn’t have thought Guy would be interested,” Hutch said. “An elderly 
couple, I take it?” 

“He’s seventy-nine; she’s seventy or so.” 

“It’s an odd name,” Hutch said. “How is it spelled?” 

Rosemary spelled it for him. 

“I’ve never heard it before,” he said. “French, I suppose.” 

“The name may be but they aren’t,” Rosemary said. “He’s from right here 
and she’s from a place called—believe it or not—Bushyhead, Oklahoma.” 

“My God,” Hutch said. “I’m going to use that in a book. That one. I know 
just where to put it. Tell me, how are you planning to get to the cabin? You’ll 
need a car, you know.” 



“I’m going to rent one.” 

“Take mine.” 

“Oh no, Hutch, I couldn’t.” 

“Do, please,” Hutch said. “All I do is move it from one side of the street to 
the other. Please. You’ll save me a great deal of bother.” 

Rosemary smiled. “All right,” she said. “I’ll do you a favor and take your 
car.” 

Hutch gave her the keys to the car and the cabin, a sketch-map of the route, 
and a typed list of instructions concerning the pump, the refrigerator, and a 
variety of possible emergencies. Then he put on shoes and a coat and walked her 
down to where the car, an old light-blue Oldsmobile, was parked. “The 
registration papers are in the glove compartment,” he said. “Please feel free to 
stay as long as you like. I have no immediate plans for either the car or the 
cabin.” 

“I’m sure I won’t stay more than a week,” Rosemary said. “Guy might not 
even want me to stay that long.” 

When she was settled in the car, Hutch leaned in at the window and said, “I 
have all kinds of good advice to give you but I’m going to mind my own 
business if it kills me.” 

Rosemary kissed him. “Thank you,” she said. “For that and for this and for 
everything.” 


She left on the morning of Saturday, October 16th, and stayed five days at the 
cabin. The first two days she never once thought about Guy—a fitting revenge 
for the cheerfulness with which he had agreed to her going. Did she look as if 
she needed a good rest? Very well, she would have one, a long one, never once 
thinking about him. She took walks through dazzling yellow-and-orange woods, 
went to sleep early and slept late, read Flight of The Falcon by Daphne du 
Maurier, and made glutton’s meals on the bottled-gas stove. Never once thinking 
about him. 

On the third day she thought about him. He was vain, self-centered, shallow, 
and deceitful. He had married her to have an audience, not a mate. (Little Miss 
Just-out-of-Omaha, what a goop she had been! “Oh, I’m used to actors; I’ve 
been here almost a year now.” And she had all but followed him around the 
studio carrying his newspaper in her mouth.) She would give him a year to shape 
up and become a good husband; if he didn’t make it she would pull out, and with 



no religious qualms whatever. And meanwhile she would go back to work and 
get again that sense of independence and self-sufficiency she had been so eager 
to get rid of. She would be strong and proud and ready to go if he failed to meet 
her standards. 

Those glutton’s meals—man-size cans of beef stew and chili con carne— 
began to disagree with her, and on that third day she was mildly nauseated and 
could eat only soup and crackers. 

On the fourth day she awoke missing him and cried. What was she doing 
there, alone in that cold crummy cabin? What had he done that was so terrible? 
He had gotten drunk and had grabbed her without saying may I. Well that was 
really an earth-shaking offense, now wasn’t it? There he was, facing the biggest 
challenge of his career, and she —instead of being there to help him, to cue and 
encourage him—was off in the middle of nowhere, eating herself sick and 
feeling sorry for herself. Sure he was vain and self-centered; he was an actor, 
wasn’t he? Laurence Olivier was probably vain and self-centered. And yes he 
might lie now and then; wasn’t that exactly what had attracted her and still did? 
—that freedom and nonchalance so different from her own boxed-in propriety? 

She drove into Brewster and called him. Service answered, the Friendly 
One: “Oh hi, dear, are you back from the country? Oh. Guy is out, dear; can he 
call you? You’ll call him at five. Right. You’ve certainly got lovely weather. Are 
you enjoying yourself? Good.” 

At five he was still out, her message waiting for him. She ate in a diner and 
went to the one movie theater. At nine he was still out and Service was someone 
new and automatic with a message for her: she should call him before eight the 
next morning or after six in the evening. 

That next day she reached what seemed like a sensible and realistic view of 
things. They were both at fault; he for being thoughtless and self-absorbed, she 
for failing to express and explain her discontent. He could hardly be expected to 
change until she showed him that change was called for. She had only to talk— 
no, they had only to talk, for he might be harboring a similar discontent of which 
she was similarly unaware—and matters couldn’t help but improve. Like so 
many unhappinesses, this one had begun with silence in the place of honest open 
talk. 

She went into Brewster at six and called and he was there. “Hi, darling,” he 
said. “How are you?” 

“Fine. How are you?” 

“All right. I miss you.” 



She smiled at the phone. “I miss you,” she said. “I’m coming home 
tomorrow.” 

“Good, that’s great,” he said. “All kinds of things have been going on here. 
Rehearsals have been postponed until January.” 

“Oh?” 

“They haven’t been able to cast the little girl. It’s a break for me though; I’m 
going to do a pilot next month. A half-hour comedy series.” 

“You are?” 

“It fell into my lap, Ro. And it really looks good. ABC loves the idea. It’s 
called Greenwich Village; it’s going to be filmed there, and I’m a way-out writer. 
It’s practically the lead.” 

“That’s marvelous, Guy!” 

“Allan says I’m suddenly very hot.” 

“That’s wonderful!” 

“Listen, I’ve got to shower and shave; he’s taking me to a screening that 
Stanley Kubrick is going to be at. When are you going to get in?” 

“Around noon, maybe earlier.” 

“I’ll be waiting. Love you.” 

“Love you!” 

She called Hutch, who was out, and left word with his service that she would 
return the car the following afternoon. 

The next morning she cleaned the cabin, closed it up and locked it, and 
drove back to the city. Traffic on the Saw Mill River Parkway was bottlenecked 
by a three-car collision, and it was close to one o’clock when she parked the car 
half-in half-out-of the bus stop in front of the Bramford. With her small suitcase 
she hurried into the house. 

The elevator man hadn’t taken Guy down, but he had been off duty from 
eleven-fifteen to twelve. 

He was there, though. The No Strings album was playing. She opened her 
mouth to call and he came out of the bedroom in a fresh shirt and tie, headed for 
the kitchen with a used coffee cup in his hand. 

They kissed, lovingly and fully, he hugging her one-armed because of the 

cup. 

“Have a good time?” he asked. 

“Terrible. Awful. I missed you so.” 

“How are you?” 

“Fine. How was Stanley Kubrick?” 



“Didn’t show, the fink.” 

They kissed again. 

She brought her suitcase into the bedroom and opened it on the bed. He 
came in with two cups of coffee, gave her one, and sat on the vanity bench while 
she unpacked. She told him about the yellow-and-orange woods and the still 
nights; he told her about Greenwich Village, who else was in it and who the 
producers, writers, and director were. 

“Are you really fine?” he asked when she was zipping closed the empty 
case. 

She didn’t understand. 

“Your period,” he said. “It was due on Tuesday.” 

“It was?” 

He nodded. 

“Well it’s just two days,” she said—matter-of-factly, as if her heart weren’t 
racing, leaping. “It’s probably the change of water, or the food I ate up there.” 

“You’ve never been late before,” he said. 

“It’ll probably come tonight. Or tomorrow.” 

“You want to bet?” 

“Yes.” 

“A quarter?” 

“Okay.” 

“You’re going to lose, Ro.” 

“Shut up. You’re getting me all jumpy. It’s only two days. It’ll probably 
come tonight.” 



CHAPTER 10 


IT DIDN’T COME that night or the next day. Or the day after that or the day 
after that. Rosemary moved gently, walked lightly, so as not to dislodge what 
might possibly have taken hold inside her. 

Talk with Guy? No, that could wait. 

Everything could wait. 

She cleaned, shopped, and cooked, breathing carefully. Laura-Louise came 
down one morning and asked her to vote for Buckley. She said she would, to get 
rid of her. 

“Give me my quarter,” Guy said. 

“Shut up,” she said, giving his arm a backhand punch. 

She made an appointment with an obstetrician and, on Thursday, October 
28th, went to see him. His name was Dr. Hill. He had been recommended to her 
by a friend, Elise Dunstan, who had used him through two pregnancies and 
swore by him. His office was on West Seventy-second Street. 

He was younger than Rosemary had expected—Guy’s age or even less—and 
he looked a little bit like Dr. Kildare on television. She liked him. He asked her 
questions slowly and with interest, examined her, and sent her to a lab on 
Sixtieth Street where a nurse drew blood from her right arm. 

He called the next afternoon at three-thirty. 

“Mrs. Woodhouse?” 

“Dr. Hill?” 

“Yes. Congratulations.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 



She sat down on the side of the bed, smiling past the phone. Really, really, 
really, really, really. 

“Are you there?” 

“What happens now?” she asked. 

“Very little. You come in and see me again next month. And you get those 
Natalin pills and start taking them. One a day. And you fill out some forms that 
I’m going to mail you—for the hospital; it’s best to get the reservation in as soon 
as possible.” 

“When will it be?” she asked. 

“If your last period was September twenty-first,” he said, “it works out to 
June twenty-eighth.” 

“That sounds so far away.” 

“It is. Oh, one more thing, Mrs. Woodhouse. The lab would like another 
blood sample. Could you drop by there tomorrow or Monday and let them have 
it?” 

“Yes, of course,” Rosemary said. “What for?” 

“The nurse didn’t take as much as she should have.” 

“But—I’m pregnant, aren’t I?” 

“Yes, they did that test,” Dr. Hill said, “but I generally have them run a few 
others besides—blood sugar and so forth—and the nurse didn’t know and only 
took enough for the one. It’s nothing to be concerned about. You’re pregnant. I 
give you my word.” 

“All right,” she said. “I’ll go back tomorrow morning.” 

“Do you remember the address?” 

“Yes, I still have the card.” 

“I’ll put those forms in the mail, and let’s see you again—the last week in 
November.” 

They made an appointment for November 29th at one o’clock and Rosemary 
hung up feeling that something was wrong. The nurse at the lab had seemed to 
know exactly what she was doing, and Dr. Hill’s offhandedness in speaking 
about her hadn’t quite rung true. Were they afraid a mistake had been made?— 
vials of blood mixed up and wrongly labeled?—and was there still a possibility 
that she wasn’t pregnant? But wouldn’t Dr. Hill have told her so frankly and not 
have been as definite as he had? 

She tried to shake it away. Of course she was pregnant; she had to be, with 
her period so long overdue. She went into the kitchen, where a wall calendar 
hung, and in the next day’s square wrote Lab; and in the square for November 



29th, Dr. Hill—1:00. 


When Guy came in she went to him without saying a word and put a quarter in 
his hand. “What’s this for?” he asked, and then caught on. “Oh, that’s great, 
honey!” he said. “Just great!”—and taking her by the shoulders he kissed her 
twice and then a third time. 

“Isn’t it?” she said. 

“Just great. I’m so happy.” 

“Father.” 

“Mother.” 

“Guy, listen,” she said, and looked up at him, suddenly serious. “Let’s make 
this a new beginning, okay? A new openness and talking-to-each-other. Because 
we haven’t been open. You’ve been so wrapped up in the show and the pilot and 
the way things have been breaking for you—I’m not saying you shouldn’t be; it 
wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t. But that’s why I went to the cabin, Guy. To 
settle in my mind what was going wrong between us. And that’s what it was, and 
is: a lack of openness. On my part too. On my part as much as yours.” 

“It’s true,” he said, his hands holding her shoulders, his eyes meeting hers 
earnestly. “It’s true. I felt it too. Not as much as you did, I guess. I’m so God¬ 
damned self-centered, Ro. That’s what the whole trouble is. I guess it’s why I’m 
in this idiot nutty profession to begin with. You know I love you though, don’t 
you? I do, Ro. I’ll try to make it plainer from now on, I swear to God I will. I’ll 
be as open as—” 

“It’s my fault as much as—” 

“Bull. It’s mine. Me and my self-centeredness. Bear with me, will you, Ro? 
I’ll try to do better.” 

“Oh, Guy,” she said in a tide of remorse and love and forgiveness, and met 
his kisses with fervent kisses of her own. 

“Fine way for parents to be carrying on,” he said. 

She laughed, wet-eyed. 

“Gee, honey,” he said, “do you know what I’d love to do?” 

“What?” 

“Tell Minnie and Roman.” He raised a hand. “I know, I know; we’re 
supposed to keep it a deep dark secret. But I told them we were trying and they 
were so pleased, and, well, with people that old”—he spread his hands ruefully 
—“if we wait too long they might never get to know at all.” 



“Tell them,” she said, loving him. 

He kissed her nose. “Back in two minutes,” he said, and turned and hurried 
to the door. Watching him go, she saw that Minnie and Roman had become 
deeply important to him. It wasn’t surprising; his mother was a busy self- 
involved chatterer and none of his fathers had been truly fatherly. The Castevets 
were filling a need in him, a need of which he himself was probably unaware. 
She was grateful to them and would think more kindly of them in the future. 

She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her eyes and fixed 
her hair and lips. “You’re pregnant,” she told herself in the mirror. ( But the lab 
wants another blood sample. What for?) 

As she came back out they came in at the front door: Minnie in a housedress, 
Roman holding in both hands a bottle of wine, and Guy behind them flushed and 
smiling. “Now that’s what I call good news!” Minnie said. “Congrat-u-lations\” 
She bore down on Rosemary, took her by the shoulders, and kissed her cheek 
hard and loud. 

“Our best wishes to you, Rosemary,” Roman said, putting his lips to her 
other cheek. “We’re more pleased than we can say. We have no champagne on 
hand, but this 1961 Saint Julien, I think, will do just as nicely for a toast.” 

Rosemary thanked them. 

“When are you due, dear?” Minnie asked. 

“June twenty-eighth.” 

“It’s going to be so exciting,” Minnie said, “between now and then.” 

“We’ll do all your shopping for you,” Roman said. 

“Oh, no,” Rosemary said. “Really.” 

Guy brought glasses and a corkscrew, and Roman turned with him to the 
opening of the wine. Minnie took Rosemary’s elbow and they walked together 
into the living room. “Listen, dear,” Minnie said, “do you have a good doctor?” 

“Yes, a very good one,” Rosemary said. 

“One of the top obstetricians in New York,” Minnie said, “is a dear friend of 
ours. Abe Sapirstein. A Jewish man. He delivers all the Society babies and he 
would deliver yours too if we asked him. And he’d do it cheap, so you’d be 
saving Guy some of his hard-earned money.” 

“Abe Sapirstein?” Roman asked from across the room. “He’s one of the 
finest obstetricians in the country, Rosemary. You’ve heard of him, haven’t 
you?” 

“I think so,” Rosemary said, recalling the name from an article in a 
newspaper or magazine. 



“I have,” Guy said. “Wasn’t he on Open End a couple of years ago?” 

“That’s right,” Roman said. “He’s one of the finest obstetricians in the 
country.” 

“Ro?” Guy said. 

“But what about Dr. Hill?” she asked. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him something,” Guy said. “You know me.” 

Rosemary thought about Dr. Hill, so young, so Kildare, with his lab that 
wanted more blood because the nurse had goofed or the technician had goofed or 
someone had goofed, causing her needless bother and concern. 

Minnie said, “I’m not going to let you go to no Dr. Hill that nobody heard 
of! The best is what you’re going to have, young lady, and the best is Abe 
Sapirstein!” 

Gratefully Rosemary smiled her decision at them. “If you’re sure he can take 
me,” she said. “He might be too busy.” 

“He’ll take you,” Minnie said. “I’m going to call him right now. Where’s the 
phone?” 

“In the bedroom,” Guy said. 

Minnie went into the bedroom. Roman poured glasses of wine. “He’s a 
brilliant man,” he said, “with all the sensitivity of his much-tormented race.” He 
gave glasses to Rosemary and Guy. “Let’s wait for Minnie,” he said. 

They stood motionless, each holding a full wineglass, Roman holding two. 
Guy said, “Sit down, honey,” but Rosemary shook her head and stayed standing. 

Minnie in the bedroom said, “Abe? Minnie. Fine. Listen, a dear friend of 
ours just found out today that she’s pregnant. Yes, isn’t it? I’m in her apartment 
now. We told her you’d be glad to take care of her and that you wouldn’t charge 
none of your fancy Society prices neither.” She was silent, then said “Wait a 
minute,” and raised her voice. “Rosemary? Can you go see him tomorrow 
morning at eleven?” 

“Yes, that would be fine,” Rosemary called back. 

Roman said, “You see?” 

“Eleven’s fine, Abe,” Minnie said. “Yes. You too. No, not at all. Let’s hope 
so. Good-by.” 

She came back. “There you are,” she said. “I’ll write down his address for 
you before we go. He’s on Seventy-ninth Street and Park Avenue.” 

“Thanks a million, Minnie,” Guy said, and Rosemary said, “I don’t know 
how to thank you. Both of you.” 

Minnie took the glass of wine Roman held out to her. “It’s easy,” she said. 



“Just do everything Abe tells you and have a fine healthy baby; that’s all the 
thanks we’ll ever ask for.” 

Roman raised his glass. “To a fine healthy baby,” he said. 

“Hear, hear,” Guy said, and they all drank; Guy, Minnie, Rosemary, Roman. 
“Mmm,” Guy said. “Delicious.” 

“Isn’t it?” Roman said. “And not at all expensive.” 

“Oh my,” Minnie said, “I can’t wait to tell the news to Laura-Louise.” 
Rosemary said, “Oh, please. Don’t tell anyone else. Not yet. It’s so early.” 
“She’s right,” Roman said. “There’ll be plenty of time later on for spreading 
the good tidings.” 

“Would anyone like some cheese and crackers?” Rosemary asked. 

“Sit down, honey,” Guy said. “I’ll get it.” 


That night Rosemary was too fired with joy and wonder to fall asleep quickly. 
Within her, under the hands that lay alertly on her stomach, a tiny egg had been 
fertilized by a tiny seed. Oh miracle, it would grow to be Andrew or Susan! 
(“Andrew” she was definite about; “Susan” was open to discussion with Guy.) 
What was Andrew-or-Susan now, a pinpoint speck? No, surely it was more than 
that; after all, wasn’t she in her second month already? Indeed she was. It had 
probably reached the early tadpole stage. She would have to find a chart or book 
that told month by month exactly what was happening. Dr. Sapirstein would 
know of one. 

A fire engine screamed by. Guy shifted and mumbled, and behind the wall 
Minnie and Roman’s bed creaked. 

There were so many dangers to worry about in the months ahead; fires, 
falling objects, cars out of control; dangers that had never been dangers before 
but were dangers now, now that Andrew-or-Susan was begun and living. (Yes, 
living!) She would give up her occasional cigarette, of course. And check with 
Dr. Sapirstein about cocktails. 

If only prayer were still possible! How nice it would be to hold a crucifix 
again and have God’s ear: ask Him for safe passage through the eight more 
months ahead; no German measles, please, no great new drugs with Thalidomide 
side effects. Eight good months, please, free of accident and illness, full of iron 
and milk and sunshine. 

Suddenly she remembered the good luck charm, the ball of tannis root; and 
foolish or not, wanted it—no, needed it—around her neck. She slipped out of 



bed, tiptoed to the vanity, and got it from the Louis Sherry box, freed it from its 
aluminum-foil wrapping. The smell of the tannis root had changed; it was still 
strong but no longer repellent. She put the chain over her head. 

With the ball tickling between her breasts, she tiptoed back to bed and 
climbed in. She drew up the blanket and, closing her eyes, settled her head down 
into the pillow. She lay breathing deeply and was soon asleep, her hands on her 
stomach shielding the embryo inside her. 



PART 2 



CHAPTER 1 


NOW SHE WAS ALIVE; was doing, was being, was at last herself and 
complete. She did what she had done before—cooked, cleaned, ironed, made the 
bed, shopped, took laundry to the basement, went to her sculpture class—but did 
everything against a new and serene background of knowing that Andrew-or- 
Susan (or Melinda) was every day a little bit bigger inside her than the day 
before, a little bit more clearly defined and closer to readiness. 

Dr. Sapirstein was wonderful; a tall sunburned man with white hair and a 
shaggy white moustache (she had seen him somewhere before but couldn’t think 
where; maybe on Open End ) who despite the Mies van der Rohe chairs and cool 
marble tables of his waiting room was reassuringly old-fashioned and direct. 
“Please don’t read books,” he said. “Every pregnancy is different, and a book 
that tells you what you’re going to feel in the third week of the third month is 
only going to make you worry. No pregnancy was ever exactly like the ones 
described in the books. And don’t listen to your friends either. They’ll have had 
experiences very different from yours and they’ll be absolutely certain that their 
pregnancies were the normal ones and that yours is abnormal.” 

She asked him about the vitamin pills Dr. Hill had prescribed. 

“No, no pills,” he said. “Minnie Castevet has a herbarium and a blender; I’m 
going to have her make a daily drink for you that will be fresher, safer, and more 
vitamin-rich than any pill on the market. And another thing: don’t be afraid to 
satisfy your cravings. The theory today is that pregnant women invent cravings 
because they feel it’s expected of them. I don’t hold with that. I say if you want 
pickles in the middle of the night, make your poor husband go out and get some, 
just like in the old jokes. Whatever you want, be sure you get it. You’ll be 



surprised at some of the strange things your body will ask for in these next few 
months. And any questions you have, call me night or day. Call me, not your 
mother or your Aunt Fanny. That’s what I’m here for.” 

She was to come in once a week, which was certainly closer attention than 
Dr. Hill gave his patients, and he would make a reservation at Doctors Hospital 
without any bother of filling out forms. 

Everything was right and bright and lovely. She got a Vidal Sassoon haircut, 
finished with the dentist, voted on Election Day (for Lindsay for mayor), and 
went down to Greenwich Village to watch some of the outdoor shooting of 
Guy’s pilot. Between takes—Guy running with a stolen hot-dog wagon down 
Sullivan Street—she crouched on her heels to talk to small children and smiled 
Me too at pregnant women. 


Salt, she found, even a few grains of it, made food inedible. “That’s perfectly 
normal,” Dr. Sapirstein said on her second visit. “When your system needs it, the 
aversion will disappear. Meanwhile, obviously, no salt. Trust your aversions the 
same as you do your cravings.” 

She didn’t have any cravings though. Her appetite, in fact, seemed smaller 
than usual. Coffee and toast was enough for breakfast, a vegetable and a small 
piece of rare meat for dinner. Each morning at eleven Minnie brought over what 
looked like a watery pistachio milkshake. It was cold and sour. 

“What’s in it?” Rosemary asked. 

“Snips and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails,” Minnie said, smiling. 

Rosemary laughed. “That’s fine,” she said, “but what if we want a girl?” 

“Do you?” 

“Well of course we’ll take what we get, but it would be nice if the first one 
were a boy.” 

“Well there you are,” Minnie said. 

Finished drinking, Rosemary said, “No, really, what’s in it?” 

“A raw egg, gelatin, herbs...” 

“Tannis root?” 

“Some of that, some of some other things.” 

Minnie brought the drink every day in the same glass, a large one with blue 
and green stripes, and stood waiting while Rosemary drained it. 



One day Rosemary got into a conversation by the elevator with Phyllis Kapp, 
young Lisa’s mother. The end of it was a brunch invitation for Guy and her on 
the following Sunday, but Guy vetoed the idea when Rosemary told him of it. In 
all likelihood he would be in Sunday’s shooting, he explained, and if he weren’t 
he would need the day for rest and study. They were having little social life just 
then. Guy had broken a dinner-and-theater date they had made a few weeks 
earlier with Jimmy and Tiger Haenigsen, and he had asked Rosemary if she 
would mind putting off Hutch for dinner. It was because of the pilot, which was 
taking longer to shoot than had been intended. 

It turned out to be just as well though, for Rosemary began to develop 
abdominal pains of an alarming sharpness. She called Dr. Sapirstein and he 
asked her to come in. Examining her, he said that there was nothing to worry 
about; the pains came from an entirely normal expansion of her pelvis. They 
would disappear in a day or two, and meanwhile she could fight them with 
ordinary doses of aspirin. 

Rosemary, relieved, said, “I was afraid it might be an ectopic pregnancy.” 

“Ectopic?” Dr. Sapirstein asked, and looked skeptically at her. She colored. 
He said, “I thought you weren’t going to read books, Rosemary.” 

“It was staring me right in the face at the drug store,” she said. 

“And all it did was worry you. Will you go home and throw it away, 
please?” 

“I will. I promise.” 

“The pains will be gone in two days,” he said. “'Ectopic pregnancy.’” He 
shook his head. 

But the pains weren’t gone in two days; they were worse, and grew worse 
still, as if something inside her were encircled by a wire being drawn tighter and 
tighter to cut it in two. There would be pain for hour after hour, and then a few 
minutes of relative painlessness that was only the pain gathering itself for a new 
assault. Aspirin did little good, and she was afraid of taking too many. Sleep, 
when it finally came, brought harried dreams in which she fought against huge 
spiders that had cornered her in the bathroom, or tugged desperately at a small 
black bush that had taken root in the middle of the living room rug. She woke 
tired, to even sharper pain. 

“This happens sometimes,” Dr. Sapirstein said. “It’ll stop any day now. Are 
you sure you haven’t been lying about your age? Usually it’s the older women 
with less flexible joints who have this sort of difficulty.” 



Minnie, bringing in the drink, said, “You poor thing. Don’t fret, dear; a niece 
of mine in Toledo had exactly the same kind of pains and so did two other 
women I know of. And their deliveries were real easy and they had beautiful 
healthy babies.” 

“Thanks,” Rosemary said. 

Minnie drew back righteously. “What do you mean? That’s the gospel truth! 
I swear to God it is, Rosemary!” 

Her face grew pinched and wan and shadowed; she looked awful. But Guy 
insisted otherwise. “What are you talking about?” he said. “You look great. It’s 
that haircut that looks awful, if you want the truth, honey. That’s the biggest 
mistake you ever made in your whole life.” 


The pain settled down to a constant presence, with no respite whatever. She 
endured it and lived with it, sleeping a few hours a night and taking one aspirin 
where Dr. Sapirstein allowed two. There was no going out with Joan or Elise, no 
sculpture class or shopping. She ordered groceries by phone and stayed in the 
apartment, making nursery curtains and starting, finally, on The Decline and Fall 
of The Roman Empire. Sometimes Minnie or Roman came in of an afternoon, to 
talk a while and see if there was anything she wanted. Once Laura-Louise 
brought down a tray of gingerbread. She hadn’t been told yet that Rosemary was 
pregnant. “Oh my, I do like that haircut, Rosemary,” she said. “You look so 
pretty and up-to-date.” She was surprised to hear she wasn’t feeling well. 

When the pilot was finally finished Guy stayed home most of the time. He 
had stopped studying with Dominick, his vocal coach, and no longer spent 
afternoons auditioning and being seen. He had two good commercials on deck— 
for Pall Mall and Texaco—and rehearsals of Don’t I Know You From 
Somewhere? were definitely scheduled to begin in mid-January. He gave 
Rosemary a hand with the cleaning, and they played time-limit Scrabble for a 
dollar a game. He answered the phone and, when it was for Rosemary, made 
plausible excuses. 

She had planned to give a Thanksgiving dinner for some of their friends 
who, like themselves, had no family nearby; with the constant pain, though, and 
the constant worry over Andrew-or-Melinda’s well-being, she decided not to, 
and they ended up going to Minnie and Roman’s instead. 



CHAPTER 2 


ONE AFTERNOON in December, while Guy was doing the Pall Mall 
commercial, Hutch called. “Em around the corner at City Center picking up 
tickets for Marcel Marceau,” he said. “Would you and Guy like to come on 
Friday night?” 

“I don’t think so, Hutch,” Rosemary said. “I haven’t been feeling too well 
lately. And Guy’s got two commercials this week.” 

“What’s the matter with you?” 

“Nothing, really. I’ve just been a bit under the weather.” 

“May I come up for a few minutes?” 

“Oh do; I’d love to see you.” 

She hurried into slacks and a jersey top, put on lipstick and brushed her hair. 
The pain sharpened—locking her for a moment with shut eyes and clenched 
teeth—and then it sank back to its usual level and she breathed out gratefully and 
went on brushing. 

Hutch, when he saw her, stared and said, “My God.” 

“It’s Vidal Sassoon and it’s very in,” she said. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he said. “I don’t mean your hair.” 

“Do I look that bad?” She took his coat and hat and hung them away, smiling 
a fixed bright smile. 

“You look terrible,” Hutch said. “You’ve lost God-knows-how-many pounds 
and you have circles around your eyes that a panda would envy. You aren’t on 
one of those ‘Zen diets,’ are you?” 

“No.” 

“Then what is it? Have you seen a doctor?” 



“I suppose I might as well tell you,” Rosemary said. “I’m pregnant. I’m in 
my third month.” 

Hutch looked at her, nonplussed. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Pregnant 
women gain weight, they don’t lose it. And they look healthy, not—” 

“There’s a slight complication,” Rosemary said, leading the way into the 
living room. “I have stiff joints or something, so I have pains that keep me 
awake most of the night. Well, one pain, really; it just sort of continues. It’s not 
serious, though. It’ll probably stop any day now.” 

“I never heard of 'stiff joints’ being a problem,” Hutch said. 

“Stiff pelvic joints. It’s fairly common.” 

Hutch sat in Guy’s easy chair. “Well, congratulations,” he said doubtfully. 
“You must be very happy.” 

“I am,” Rosemary said. “We both are.” 

“Who’s your obstetrician?” 

“His name is Abraham Sapirstein. He’s—” 

“I know him,” Hutch said. “Or of him. He delivered two of Doris’s babies.” 
Doris was Hutch’s elder daughter. 

“He’s one of the best in the city,” Rosemary said. 

“When did you see him last?” 

“The day before yesterday. And he said just what I told you; it’s fairly 
common and it’ll probably stop any day now. Of course he’s been saying that 
since it started...” 

“How much weight have you lost?” 

“Only three pounds. It looks—” 

“Nonsense! You’ve lost far more than that!” 

Rosemary smiled. “You sound like our bathroom scale,” she said. “Guy 
finally threw it out, it was scaring me so. No, I’ve lost only three pounds and one 
little space more. And it’s perfectly normal to lose a little during the first few 
months. Later on I’ll be gaining.” 

“I certainly hope so,” Hutch said. “You look as if you’re being drained by a 
vampire. Are you sure there aren’t any puncture marks?” Rosemary smiled. 
“Well,” Hutch said, leaning back and smiling too, “we’ll assume that Dr. 
Sapirstein knows whereof he speaks. God knows he should; he charges enough. 
Guy must be doing sensationally.” 

“He is,” Rosemary said. “But we’re getting bargain rates. Our neighbors the 
Castevets are close friends of his; they sent me to him and he’s charging us his 
special non-Society prices.” 



“Does that mean Doris and Axel are Society?” Hutch said. “They’ll be 
delighted to hear about it.” 

The doorbell rang. Hutch offered to answer it but Rosemary wouldn’t let 
him. “Hurts less when I move around,” she said, going out of the room; and went 
to the front door trying to recall if there was anything she had ordered that hadn’t 
been delivered yet. 

It was Roman, looking slightly winded. Rosemary smiled and said, “I 
mentioned your name two seconds ago.” 

“In a favorable context, I hope,” he said. “Do you need anything from 
outside? Minnie is going down in a while and our house phone doesn’t seem to 
be functioning.” 

“No, nothing,” Rosemary said. “Thanks so much for asking. I phoned out for 
things this morning.” 

Roman glanced beyond her for an instant, and then, smiling, asked if Guy 
was home already. 

“No, he won’t be back until six at the earliest,” Rosemary said; and, because 
Roman’s pallid face stayed waiting with its questioning smile, added, “A friend 
of ours is here.” The questioning smile stayed. She said, “Would you like to meet 
him?” 

“Yes, I would,” Roman said. “If I won’t be intruding.” 

“Of course you won’t.” Rosemary showed him in. He was wearing a black- 
and-white checked jacket over a blue shirt and a wide paisley tie. He passed 
close to her and she noticed for the first time that his ears were pierced—that the 
left one was, at any rate. 

She followed him to the living-room archway. “This is Edward Hutchins,” 
she said, and to Hutch, who was rising and smiling, “This is Roman Castevet, 
the neighbor I just mentioned.” She explained to Roman: “I was telling Hutch 
that it was you and Minnie who sent me to Dr. Sapirstein.” 

The two men shook hands and greeted each other. Hutch said, “One of my 
daughters used Dr. Sapirstein too. On two occasions.” 

“He’s a brilliant man,” Roman said. “We met him only last spring but he’s 
become one of our closest friends.” 

“Sit down, won’t you?” Rosemary said. The men seated themselves and 
Rosemary sat by Hutch. 

Roman said, “So Rosemary has told you the good news, has she?” 

“Yes, she has,” Hutch said. 

“We must see that she gets plenty of rest,” Roman said, “and complete 



freedom from worry and anxiety.” 

Rosemary said, “That would be heaven.” 

“I was a bit alarmed by her appearance,” Hutch said, looking at Rosemary as 
he took out a pipe and a striped rep tobacco pouch. 

“Were you?” Roman said. 

“But now that I know she’s in Dr. Sapirstein’s care I feel considerably 
relieved.” 

“She’s only lost two or three pounds,” Roman said. “Isn’t that so, 
Rosemary?” 

“That’s right,” Rosemary said. 

“And that’s quite normal in the early months of pregnancy,” Roman said. 
“Later on she’ll gain—probably far too much.” 

“So I gather,” Hutch said, filling his pipe. 

Rosemary said, “Mrs. Castevet makes a vitamin drink for me every day, with 
a raw egg and milk and fresh herbs that she grows.” 

“All according to Dr. Sapirstein’s directions, of course,” Roman said. “He’s 
inclined to be suspicious of commercially prepared vitamin pills.” 

“Is he really?” Hutch asked, pocketing his pouch. “I can’t think of anything 
I’d be less suspicious of; they’re surely manufactured under every imaginable 
safeguard.” He struck two matches as one and sucked flame into his pipe, 
blowing out puffs of aromatic white smoke. Rosemary put an ashtray near him. 

“That’s true,” Roman said, “but commercial pills can sit for months in a 
warehouse or on a druggist’s shelf and lose a great deal of their original 
potency.” 

“Yes, I hadn’t thought of that,” Hutch said; “I suppose they can.” 

Rosemary said, “I like the idea of having everything fresh and natural. I’ll 
bet expectant mothers chewed bits of tannis root hundreds and hundreds of years 
ago when nobody’d even heard of vitamins.” 

“Tannis root?” Hutch said. 

“It’s one of the herbs in the drink,” Rosemary said. “Or is it an herb?” She 
looked to Roman. “Can a root be an herb?” But Roman was watching Hutch and 
didn’t hear. 

“‘Tannis?’” Hutch said. “I’ve never heard of it. Are you sure you don’t mean 
‘anise’ or ‘orris root’?” 

Roman said, “Tannis.” 

“Here,” Rosemary said, drawing out her charm. “It’s good luck too, 
theoretically. Brace yourself; the smell takes a little getting-used-to.” She held 



the charm out, leaning forward to bring it closer to Hutch. 

He sniffed at it and drew away, grimacing. “I should say it does,” he said. He 
took the chained ball between two fingertips and squinted at it from a distance. 
“It doesn’t look like root matter at all,” he said; “it looks like mold or fungus of 
some kind.” He looked at Roman. “Is it ever called by another name?” he asked. 

“Not to my knowledge,” Roman said. 

“I shall look it up in the encyclopedia and find out all about it,” Hutch said. 
“Tannis. What a pretty holder or charm or whatever-it-is. Where did you get it?” 

With a quick smile at Roman, Rosemary said, “The Castevets gave it to me.” 
She tucked the charm back inside her top. 

Hutch said to Roman, “You and your wife seem to be taking better care of 
Rosemary than her own parents would.” 

Roman said, “We’re very fond of her, and of Guy too.” He pushed against 
the arms of his chair and raised himself to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have 
to go now,” he said. “My wife is waiting for me.” 

“Of course,” Hutch said, rising. “It’s a pleasure to have met you.” 

“We’ll meet again, I’m sure,” Roman said. “Don’t bother, Rosemary.” 

“It’s no bother.” She walked along with him to the front door. His right ear 
was pierced too, she saw, and there were many small scars on his neck like a 
flight of distant birds. “Thanks again for stopping by,” she said. 

“Don’t mention it,” Roman said. “I like your friend Mr. Hutchins; he seems 
extremely intelligent.” 

Rosemary, opening the door, said, “He is.” 

“I’m glad I met him,” Roman said. With a smile and a hand-wave he started 
down the hall. 

“’By,” Rosemary said, waving back. 


Hutch was standing by the bookshelves. “This room is glorious,” he said. 
“You’re doing a beautiful job.” 

“Thanks,” Rosemary said. “I was until my pelvis intervened. Roman has 
pierced ears. I just noticed it for the first time.” 

“Pierced ears and piercing eyes,” Hutch said. “What was he before he 
became a Golden Ager?” 

“Just about everything. And he’s been everywhere in the world. Really 
everywhere.” 

“Nonsense; nobody has. Why did he ring your bell?—if I’m not being too 



inquisitive.” 

“To see if I needed anything from outside. The house phone isn’t working. 
They’re fantastic neighbors. They’d come in and do the cleaning if I let them.” 

“What’s she like?” 

Rosemary told him. “Guy’s gotten very close to them,” she said. “I think 
they’ve become sort of parent-figures for him.” 

“And you?” 

“I’m not sure. Sometimes I’m so grateful I could kiss them, and sometimes I 
get a sort of smothery feeling, as if they’re being too friendly and helpful. Yet 
how can I complain? You remember the power failure?” 

“Shall I ever forget it? I was in an elevator.” 

“No.” 

“Yes indeed. Five hours in total darkness with three women and a John 
Bircher who were all sure that the Bomb had fallen.” 

“How awful.” 

“You were saying?” 

“We were here, Guy and I, and two minutes after the lights went out Minnie 
was at the door with a handful of candles.” She gestured toward the mantel. 
“Now how can you find fault with neighbors like that?” 

“You can’t, obviously,” Hutch said, and stood looking at the mantel. “Are 
those the ones?” he asked. Two pewter candlesticks stood between a bowl of 
polished stones and a brass microscope; in them were three-inch lengths of black 
candle ribbed with drippings. 

“The last survivors,” Rosemary said. “She brought a whole month’s worth. 
What is it?” 

“Were they all black?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she said. “Why?” 

“Just curious.” He turned from the mantel, smiling at her. “Offer me coffee, 
will you? And tell me more about Mrs. Castevet. Where does she grow those 
herbs of hers? In window boxes?” 


They were sitting over cups at the kitchen table some ten minutes later when the 
front door unlocked and Guy hurried in. “Hey, what a surprise,” he said, coming 
over and grabbing Hutch’s hand before he could rise. “How are you, Hutch? 
Good to see you!” He clasped Rosemary’s head in his other hand and bent and 
kissed her cheek and lips. “How you doing, honey?” He still had his make-up 



on; his face was orange, his eyes black-lashed and large. 

“You’re the surprise,” Rosemary said. “What happened?” 

“Ah, they stopped in the middle for a rewrite, the dumb bastards. We start 
again in the morning. Stay where you are, nobody move; I’ll just get rid of my 
coat.” He went out to the closet. 

“Would you like some coffee?” Rosemary called. 

“Love some!” 

She got up and poured a cup, and refilled Hutch’s cup and her own. Hutch 
sucked at his pipe, looking thoughtfully before him. 

Guy came back in with his hands full of packs of Pall Mall. “Loot,” he said, 
dumping them on the table. “Hutch?” 

“No, thanks.” 

Guy tore a pack open, jammed cigarettes up, and pulled one out. He winked 
at Rosemary as she sat down again. 

Hutch said, “It seems congratulations are in order.” 

Guy, lighting up, said, “Rosemary told you? It’s wonderful, isn’t it? We’re 
delighted. Of course I’m scared stiff that I’ll be a lousy father, but Rosemary’ll 
be such a great mother that it won’t make much difference.” 

“When is the baby due?” Hutch asked. 

Rosemary told him, and told Guy that Dr. Sapirstein had delivered two of 
Hutch’s grandchildren. 

Hutch said, “I met your neighbor, Roman Castevet.” 

“Oh, did you?” Guy said. “Funny old duck, isn’t he? He’s got some 
interesting stories, though, about Otis Skinner and Modjeska. He’s quite a theater 
buff.” 

Rosemary said, “Did you ever notice that his ears are pierced?” 

“You’re kidding,” Guy said. 

“No I’m not; I saw.” 

They drank their coffee, talking of Guy’s quickening career and of a trip 
Hutch planned to make in the spring to Greece and Turkey. 

“It’s a shame we haven’t seen more of you lately,” Guy said, when Hutch 
had excused himself and risen. “With me so busy and Ro being the way she is, 
we really haven’t seen anyone.” 

“Perhaps we can have dinner together soon,” Hutch said; and Guy, agreeing, 
went to get his coat. 

Rosemary said, “Don’t forget to look up tannis root.” 

“I won’t,” Hutch said. “And you tell Dr. Sapirstein to check his scale; I still 



think you’ve lost more than three pounds.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Rosemary said. “Doctors’ scales aren’t wrong.” 

Guy, holding open a coat, said, “It’s not mine, it must be yours.” 

“Right you are,” Hutch said. Turning, he put his arms back into it. “Have 
you thought about names yet,” he asked Rosemary, “or is it too soon?” 

“Andrew or Douglas if it’s a boy,” she said. “Melinda or Sarah if it’s a girl.” 

“‘Sarah?’” Guy said. “What happened to ‘Susan’?” He gave Hutch his hat. 

Rosemary offered her cheek for Hutch’s kiss. 

“I do hope the pain stops soon,” he said. 

“It will,” she said, smiling. “Don’t worry.” 

Guy said, “It’s a pretty common condition.” 

Hutch felt his pockets. “Is there another one of these around?” he asked, and 
showed them a brown fur-lined glove and felt his pockets again. 

Rosemary looked around at the floor and Guy went to the closet and looked 
down on the floor and up onto the shelf. “I don’t see it, Hutch,” he said. 

“Nuisance,” Hutch said. “I probably left it at City Center. I’ll stop back 
there. Let’s really have that dinner, shall we?” 

“Definitely,” Guy said, and Rosemary said, “Next week.” 

They watched him around the first turn of the hallway and then stepped back 
inside and closed the door. 

“That was a nice surprise,” Guy said. “Was he here long?” 

“Not very,” Rosemary said. “Guess what he said.” 

“What?” 

“I look terrible.” 

“Good old Hutch,” Guy said, “spreading cheer wherever he goes.” 
Rosemary looked at him questioningly. “Well he is a professional crepe-hanger, 
honey,” he said. “Remember how he tried to sour us on moving in here?” 

“He isn’t a professional crepe-hanger,” Rosemary said, going into the 
kitchen to clear the table. 

Guy leaned against the door jamb. “Then he sure is one of the top-ranking 
amateurs,” he said. 

A few minutes later he put his coat on and went out for a newspaper. 


The telephone rang at ten-thirty that evening, when Rosemary was in bed 
reading and Guy was in the den watching television. He answered the call and a 
minute later brought the phone into the bedroom. “Hutch wants to speak to you,” 



he said, putting the phone on the bed and crouching to plug it in. “I told him you 
were resting but he said it couldn’t wait.” 

Rosemary picked up the receiver. “Hutch?” she said. 

“Hello, Rosemary,” Hutch said. “Tell me, dear, do you go out at all or do you 
stay in your apartment all day?” 

“Well I haven’t been going out,” she said, looking at Guy; “but I could. 
Why?” Guy looked back at her, frowning, listening. 

“There’s something I want to speak to you about,” Hutch said. “Can you 
meet me tomorrow morning at eleven in front of the Seagram Building?” 

“Yes, if you want me to,” she said. “What is it? Can’t you tell me now?” 

“I’d rather not,” he said. “It’s nothing terribly important so don’t brood about 
it. We can have a late brunch or early lunch if you’d like.” 

“That would be nice.” 

“Good. Eleven o’clock then, in front of the Seagram Building.” 

“Right. Did you get your glove?” 

“No, they didn’t have it,” he said, “but it’s time I got some new ones 
anyway. Good night, Rosemary. Sleep well.” 

“You too. Good night.” 

She hung up. 

“What was that?” Guy asked. 

“He wants me to meet him tomorrow morning. He has something he wants 
to talk to me about.” 

“And he didn’t say what?” 

“Not a word.” 

Guy shook his head, smiling. “I think those boys’ adventure stories are going 
to his head,” he said. “Where are you meeting him?” 

“In front of the Seagram Building at eleven o’clock.” 

Guy unplugged the phone and went out with it to the den; almost 
immediately, though, he was back. “You’re the pregnant one and I’m the one 
with yens,” he said, plugging the phone back in and putting it on the night table. 
“I’m going to go out and get an ice cream cone. Do you want one?” 

“Okay,” Rosemary said. 

“Vanilla?” 

“Fine.” 

“I’ll be as quick as I can.” 

He went out, and Rosemary leaned back against her pillows, looking ahead 
at nothing with her book forgotten in her lap. What was it Hutch wanted to talk 



about? Nothing terribly important, he had said. But it must be something not 
unimportant too, or else he wouldn’t have summoned her as he had. Was it 
something about Joan?—or one of the other girls who had shared the apartment? 

Far away she heard the Castevets’ doorbell give one short ring. Probably it 
was Guy, asking them if they wanted ice cream or a morning paper. Nice of him. 

The pain sharpened inside her. 



CHAPTER 3 


THE FOLLOWING MORNING Rosemary called Minnie on the house phone 
and asked her not to bring the drink over at eleven o’clock; she was on her way 
out and wouldn’t be back until one or two. 

“Why, that’s fine, dear,” Minnie said. “Don’t you worry about a thing. You 
don’t have to take it at no fixed time; just so you take it sometime, that’s all. You 
go on out. It’s a nice day and it’ll do you good to get some fresh air. Buzz me 
when you get back and I’ll bring the drink in then.” 

It was indeed a nice day; sunny, cold, clear, and invigorating. Rosemary 
walked through it slowly, ready to smile, as if she weren’t carrying her pain 
inside her. Salvation Army Santa Clauses were on every corner, shaking their 
bells in their fool-nobody costumes. Stores all had their Christmas windows; 
Park Avenue had its center line of trees. 

She reached the Seagram Building at a quarter of eleven and, because she 
was early and there was no sign yet of Hutch, sat for a while on the low wall at 
the side of the building’s forecourt, taking the sun on her face and listening with 
pleasure to busy footsteps and snatches of conversation, to cars and trucks and a 
helicopter’s racketing. The dress beneath her coat was—for the first satisfying 
time—snug over her stomach; maybe after lunch she would go to 
Bloomingdale’s and look at maternity dresses. She was glad Hutch had called 
her out this way (but what did he want to talk about?); pain, even constant pain, 
was no excuse for staying indoors as much as she had. She would fight it from 
now on, fight it with air and sunlight and activity, not succumb to it in Bramford 
gloom under the well-meant pamperings of Minnie and Guy and Roman. Pain, 
begone! she thought; I will have no more of thee! The pain stayed, immune to 



Positive Thinking. 

At five of eleven she went and stood by the building’s glass doors, at the 
edge of their heavy flow of traffic. Hutch would probably be coming from 
inside, she thought, from an earlier appointment; or else why had he chosen here 
rather than someplace else for their meeting? She scouted the outcoming faces as 
best she could, saw him but was mistaken, then saw a man she had dated before 
she met Guy and was mistaken again. She kept looking, stretching now and then 
on tiptoes; not anxiously, for she knew that even if she failed to see him, Hutch 
would see her. 

He hadn’t come by five after eleven, nor by ten after. At a quarter after she 
went inside to look at the building’s directory, thinking she might see a name 
there that he had mentioned at one time or another and to which she might make 
a call of inquiry. The directory proved to be far too large and many-named for 
careful reading, though; she skimmed over its crowded columns and, seeing 
nothing familiar, went outside again. 

She went back to the low wall and sat where she had sat before, this time 
watching the front of the building and glancing over occasionally at the shallow 
steps leading up from the sidewalk. Men and women met other men and women, 
but there was no sign of Hutch, who was rarely if ever late for appointments. 

At eleven-forty Rosemary went back into the building and was sent by a 
maintenance man down to the basement, where at the end of a white institutional 
corridor there was a pleasant lounge area with black modern chairs, an abstract 
mural, and a single stainless-steel phone booth. A Negro girl was in the booth, 
but she finished soon and came out with a friendly smile. Rosemary slipped in 
and dialed the number at the apartment. After five rings Service answered; there 
were no messages for Rosemary, and the one message for Guy was from a Rudy 
Horn, not a Mr. Hutchins. She had another dime and used it to call Hutch’s 
number, thinking that his service might know where he was or have a message 
from him. On the first ring a woman answered with a worried non-service 
“Yes?” 

“Is this Edward Hutchins’ apartment?” Rosemary asked. 

“Yes. Who is this, please?” She sounded like a woman neither young nor old 
—in her forties, perhaps. 

Rosemary said, “My name is Rosemary Woodhouse. I had an eleven o’clock 
appointment with Mr. Hutchins and he hasn’t shown up yet. Do you have any 
idea whether he’s coming or not?” 

There was silence, and more of it. “Hello?” Rosemary said. 



“Hutch has told me about you, Rosemary,” the woman said. “My name is 
Grace Cardiff. I’m a friend of his. He was taken ill last night. Or early this 
morning, to be exact.” 

Rosemary’s heart dropped. “Taken ill?” she said. 

“Yes. He’s in a deep coma. The doctors haven’t been able to find out yet 
what’s causing it. He’s at St. Vincent’s Hospital.” 

“Oh, that’s awful,” Rosemary said. “I spoke to him last night around ten- 
thirty and he sounded fine” 

“I spoke to him not much later than that,” Grace Cardiff said, “and he 
sounded fine to me too. But his cleaning woman came in this morning and found 
him unconscious on the bedroom floor.” 

“And they don’t know what from?” 

“Not yet. It’s early though, and I’m sure they’ll find out soon. And when 
they do, they’ll be able to treat him. At the moment he’s totally unresponsive.” 

“How awful,” Rosemary said. “And he’s never had anything like this 
before?” 

“Never,” Grace Cardiff said. “I’m going back to the hospital now, and if 
you’ll give me a number where I can reach you, I’ll let you know when there’s 
any change.” 

“Oh, thank you,” Rosemary said. She gave the apartment number and then 
asked if there was anything she could do to help. 

“Not really,” Grace Cardiff said. “I just finished calling his daughters, and 
that seems to be the sum total of what has to be done, at least until he comes to. 
If there should be anything else I’ll let you know.” 


Rosemary came out of the Seagram Building and walked across the forecourt 
and down the steps and north to the corner of Fifty-third Street. She crossed Park 
Avenue and walked slowly toward Madison, wondering whether Hutch would 
live or die, and if he died, whether she (selfishness!) would ever again have 
anyone on whom she could so effortlessly and completely depend. She 
wondered too about Grace Cardiff, who sounded silver-gray and attractive; had 
she and Hutch been having a quiet middle-aged affair? She hoped so. Maybe this 
brush with death—that’s what it would be, a brush with death, not death itself; it 
couldn’t be—maybe this brush with death would nudge them both toward 
marriage, and turn out in the end to have been a disguised blessing. Maybe. 
Maybe. 



She crossed Madison, and somewhere between Madison and Fifth found 
herself looking into a window in which a small creche was spotlighted, with 
exquisite porcelain figures of Mary and the Infant and Joseph, the Magi and the 
shepherds and the animals of the stable. She smiled at the tender scene, laden 
with meaning and emotion that survived her agnosticism; and then saw in the 
window glass, like a veil hung before the Nativity, her own reflection smiling, 
with the skeletal cheeks and black-circled eyes that yesterday had alarmed Hutch 
and now alarmed her. 

“Well this is what I call the long arm of coincidence!” Minnie exclaimed, 
and came smiling to her when Rosemary turned, in a white mock-leather coat 
and a red hat and her neckchained eyeglasses. “I said to myself, ‘As long as 
Rosemary’s out, I might as well go out, and do the last little bit of my Christmas 
shopping.’ And here you are and here I am! It looks like we’re just two of a kind 
that go the same places and do the same things! Why, what’s the matter, dear? 
You look so sad and downcast.” 

“I just heard some bad news,” Rosemary said. “A friend of mine is very sick. 
In the hospital.” 

“Oh, no,” Minnie said. “Who?” 

“His name is Edward Hutchins,” Rosemary said. 

“The one Roman met yesterday afternoon? Why, he was going on for an 
hour about what a nice intelligent man he was! Isn’t that a pity! What’s troubling 
him?” 

Rosemary told her. 

“My land,” Minnie said, “I hope it doesn’t turn out the way it did for poor 
Lily Gardenia! And the doctors don’t even know? Well at least they admit it; 
usually they cover up what they don’t know with a lot of high-flown Latin. If the 
money spent putting those astronauts up where they are was spent on medical 
research down here, we’d all be a lot better off, if you want my opinion. Do you 
feel all right, Rosemary?” 

“The pain is a little worse,” Rosemary said. 

“You poor thing. You know what I think? I think we ought to be going home 
now. What do you say?” 

“No, no, you have to finish your Christmas shopping.” 

“Oh shoot,” Minnie said, “there’s two whole weeks yet. Hold onto your 
ears.” She put her wrist to her mouth and blew stabbing shrillness from a whistle 
on a gold-chain bracelet. A taxi veered toward them. “How’s that for service?” 
she said. “A nice big Checker one too.” 



Soon after, Rosemary was in the apartment again. She drank the cold sour 
drink from the blue-and-green-striped glass while Minnie looked on approvingly. 



CHAPTER 4 


SHE HAD BEEN EATING her meat rare; now she ate it nearly raw—broiled 
only long enough to take away the refrigerator’s chill and seal in the juices. 

The weeks before the holidays and the holiday season itself were dismal. 
The pain grew worse, grew so grinding that something shut down in Rosemary 
—some center of resistance and remembered well-being—and she stopped 
reacting, stopped mentioning pain to Dr. Sapirstein, stopped referring to pain 
even in her thoughts. Until now it had been inside her; now she was inside it; 
pain was the weather around her, was time, was the entire world. Numbed and 
exhausted, she began to sleep more, and to eat more too—more nearly raw meat. 

She did what had to be done: cooked and cleaned, sent Christmas cards to 
the family—she hadn’t the heart for phone calls—and put new money into 
envelopes for the elevator men, doormen, porters, and Mr. Micklas. She looked 
at newspapers and tried to be interested in students burning draft cards and the 
threat of a city-wide transit strike, but she couldn’t: this was news from a world 
of fantasy; nothing was real but her world of pain. Guy bought Christmas 
presents for Minnie and Roman; for each other they agreed to buy nothing at all. 
Minnie and Roman gave them coasters. 

They went to nearby movies a few times, but most evenings they stayed in 
or went around the hall to Minnie and Roman’s, where they met couples named 
Fountain and Gilmore and Wees, a woman named Mrs. Sabatini who always 
brought her cat, and Dr. Shand, the retired dentist who had made the chain for 
Rosemary’s tannis-charm. These were all elderly people who treated Rosemary 
with kindness and concern, seeing, apparently, that she was less than well. 
Laura-Louise was there too, and sometimes Dr. Sapirstein joined the group. 



Roman was an energetic host, filling glasses and launching new topics of 
conversation. On New Year’s Eve he proposed a toast—“To 1966, The Year 
One”—that puzzled Rosemary, although everyone else seemed to understand 
and approve of it. She felt as if she had missed a literary or political reference— 
not that she really cared. She and Guy usually left early, and Guy would see her 
into bed and go back. He was the favorite of the women, who gathered around 
him and laughed at his jokes. 

Hutch stayed as he was, in his deep and baffling coma. Grace Cardiff called 
every week or so. “No change, no change at all,” she would say. “They still don’t 
know. He could wake up tomorrow morning or he could sink deeper and never 
wake up at all.” 

Twice Rosemary went to St. Vincent’s Hospital to stand beside Hutch’s bed 
and look down powerlessly at the closed eyes, the scarcely discernible breathing. 
The second time, early in January, his daughter Doris was there, sitting by the 
window working a piece of needlepoint. Rosemary had met her a year earlier at 
Hutch’s apartment; she was a short pleasant woman in her thirties, married to a 
Swedishborn psychoanalyst. She looked, unfortunately, like a younger wigged 
Hutch. 

Doris didn’t recognize Rosemary, and when Rosemary had re-introduced 
herself she made a distressed apology. 

“Please don’t,” Rosemary said, smiling. “I know. I look awful.” 

“No, you haven’t changed at all,” Doris said. “I’m terrible with faces. I 
forget my children, really I do.” 

She put aside her needlepoint and Rosemary drew up another chair and sat 
with her. They talked about Hutch’s condition and watched a nurse come in and 
replace the hanging bottle that fed into his taped arm. 

“We have an obstetrician in common,” Rosemary said when the nurse had 
gone; and then they talked about Rosemary’s pregnancy and Dr. Sapirstein’s skill 
and eminence. Doris was surprised to hear that he was seeing Rosemary every 
week. “He only saw me once a month,” she said. “Till near the end, of course. 
Then it was every two weeks, and then every week, but only in the last month. I 
thought that was fairly standard.” 

Rosemary could find nothing to say, and Doris suddenly looked distressed 
again. “But I suppose every pregnancy is a law unto itself,” she said, with a 
smile meant to rectify tactlessness. 

“That’s what he told me,” Rosemary said. 

That evening she told Guy that Dr. Sapirstein had only seen Doris once a 



month. “Something is wrong with me,” she said. “And he knew it right from the 
beginning.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Guy said. “He would tell you. And even if he wouldn’t, he 
would certainly tell me.” 

“Has he? Has he said anything to you?” 

“Absolutely not, Ro. I swear to God.” 

“Then why do I have to go every week?” 

“Maybe that’s the way he does it now. Or maybe he’s giving you better 
treatment, because you’re Minnie and Roman’s friend.” 

“No.” 

“Well I don’t know; ask him,” Guy said. “Maybe you’re more fun to 
examine than she was.” 


She asked Dr. Sapirstein two days later. “Rosemary, Rosemary,” he said to her; 
“what did I tell you about talking to your friends? Didn’t I say that every 
pregnancy is different?” 

“Yes, but—” 

“And the treatment has to be different too. Doris Allert had had two 
deliveries before she ever came to me, and there had been no complications 
whatever. She didn’t require the close attention a first-timer does.” 

“Do you always see first-timers every week?” 

“I try to,” he said. “Sometimes I can’t. There’s nothing wrong with you, 
Rosemary. The pain will stop very soon.” 

“I’ve been eating raw meat,” she said. “Just warmed a little.” 

“Anything else out of the ordinary?” 

“No,” she said, taken aback; wasn’t that enough? 

“Whatever you want, eat it,” he said. “I told you you’d get some strange 
cravings. I’ve had women eat paper. And stop worrying. I don’t keep things from 
my patients; it makes life too confusing. I’m telling you the truth. Okay?” 

She nodded. 

“Say hello to Minnie and Roman for me,” he said. “And Guy too.” 


She began the second volume of The Decline and Fall, and began knitting a red- 
and-orange striped muffler for Guy to wear to rehearsals. The threatened transit 



strike had come about but it affected them little since they were both at home 
most of the time. Late in the afternoon they watched from their bay windows the 
slow-moving crowds far below. “Walk, you peasants!” Guy said. “Walk! Home, 
home, and be quick about it!” 

Not long after telling Dr. Sapirstein about the nearly raw meat, Rosemary 
found herself chewing on a raw and dripping chicken heart—in the kitchen one 
morning at four-fifteen. She looked at herself in the side of the toaster, where her 
moving reflection had caught her eye, and then looked at her hand, at the part of 
the heart she hadn’t yet eaten held in red-dripping fingers. After a moment she 
went over and put the heart in the garbage, and turned on the water and rinsed 
her hand. Then, with the water still running, she bent over the sink and began to 
vomit. 

When she was finished she drank some water, washed her face and hands, 
and cleaned the inside of the sink with the spray attachment. She turned off the 
water and dried herself and stood for a while, thinking; and then she got a memo 
pad and a pencil from one of the drawers and went to the table and sat down and 
began to write. 


Guy came in just before seven in his pajamas. She had the Life Cookbook open 
on the table and was copying a recipe out of it. “What the hell are you doing?” 
he asked. 

She looked at him. “Planning the menu,” she said. “For a party. We’re giving 
a party on January twenty-second. A week from next Saturday.” She looked 
among several slips of paper on the table and picked one up. “We’re inviting 
Elise Dunstan and her husband,” she said, “Joan and a date, Jimmy and Tiger, 
Allan and a date, Lou and Claudia, the Chens, the Wendells, Dee Bertillon and a 
date unless you don’t want him, Mike and Pedro, Bob and Thea Goodman, the 
Kapps”—she pointed in the Kapps’ direction—“and Doris and Axel Allert, if 
they’ll come. That’s Hutch’s daughter.” 

“I know,” Guy said. 

She put down the paper. “Minnie and Roman are not invited,” she said. 
“Neither is Laura-Louise. Neither are the Fountains and the Gilmores and the 
Weeses. Neither is Dr. Sapirstein. This is a very special party. You have to be 
under sixty to get in.” 

“Whew,” Guy said. “For a minute there I didn’t think I was going to make 
it.” 



“Oh, you make it,” Rosemary said. “You’re the bartender.” 

“Swell,” Guy said. “Do you really think this is such a great idea?” 

“I think it’s the best idea I’ve had in months.” 

“Don’t you think you ought to check with Sapirstein first?” 

“Why? I’m just going to give a party; I’m not going to swim the English 
Channel or climb Annapurna.” 

Guy went to the sink and turned on the water. He held a glass under it. “I’ll 
be in rehearsal then, you know,” he said. “We start on the seventeenth.” 

“You won’t have to do a thing,” Rosemary said. “Just come home and be 
charming.” 

“And tend bar.” He turned off the water and raised his glass and drank. 

“We’ll hire a bartender,” Rosemary said. “The one Joan and Dick used to 
have. And when you’re ready to go to sleep I’ll chase everyone out.” 

Guy turned around and looked at her. 

“I want to see them,” she said. “Not Minnie and Roman. I’m tired of Minnie 
and Roman.” 

He looked away from her, and then at the floor, and then at her eyes again. 
“What about the pain?” he asked. 

She smiled drily. “Haven’t you heard?” she said. “It’s going to be gone in a 
day or two. Dr. Sapirstein told me so.” 


Everyone could come except the Allerts, because of Hutch’s condition, and the 
Chens, who were going to be in London taking pictures of Charlie Chaplin. The 
bartender wasn’t available but knew another one who was. Rosemary took a 
loose brown velvet hostess gown to the cleaner, made an appointment to have 
her hair done, and ordered wine and liquor and ice cubes and the ingredients of a 
Chilean seafood casserole called chupe. 

On the Thursday morning before the party, Minnie came with the drink 
while Rosemary was picking apart crabmeat and lobster tails. “That looks 
interesting,” Minnie said, glancing into the kitchen. “What is it?” 

Rosemary told her, standing at the front door with the striped glass cold in 
her hand. “I’m going to freeze it and then bake it Saturday evening,” she said. 
“We’re having some people over.” 

“Oh, you feel up to entertaining?” Minnie asked. 

“Yes, I do,” Rosemary said. “These are old friends whom we haven’t seen in 
a long time. They don’t even know yet that I’m pregnant.” 



“I’d be glad to give you a hand if you’d like,” Minnie said. “I could help you 
dish things out.” 

“Thank you, that’s sweet of you,” Rosemary said, “but I really can manage 
by myself. It’s going to be buffet, and there’ll be very little to do.” 

“I could help you take the coats.” 

“No, really, Minnie, you do enough for me as it is. Really.” 

Minnie said, “Well, let me know if you change your mind. Drink your drink 
now.” 

Rosemary looked at the glass in her hand. “I’d rather not,” she said, and 
looked up at Minnie. “Not this minute. I’ll drink it in a little while and bring the 
glass back to you.” 

Minnie said, “It doesn’t do to let it stand.” 

“I won’t wait long,” Rosemary said. “Go on. You go back and I’ll bring the 
glass to you later on.” 

“I’ll wait and save you the walk.” 

“You’ll do no such thing,” Rosemary said. “I get very nervous if anyone 
watches me while I’m cooking. I’m going out later, so I’ll be passing right by 
your door.” 

“Going out?” 

“Shopping. Scoot now, go on. You’re too nice to me, really you are.” 

Minnie backed away. “Don’t wait too long,” she said. “It’s going to lose its 
vitamins.” 

Rosemary closed the door. She went into the kitchen and stood for a moment 
with the glass in her hand, and then went to the sink and tipped out the drink in a 
pale green spire drilling straight down into the drain. 

She finished the chupe, humming and feeling pleased with herself. When it 
was covered and stowed away in the freezer compartment she made her own 
drink out of milk, cream, an egg, sugar, and sherry. Shaken in a covered jar, it 
poured out tawny and delicious-looking. “Hang on, David-or-Amanda,” she said, 
and tasted it and found it great. 



CHAPTER 5 


FOR A LITTLE WHILE around half past nine it looked as if no one was going 
to come. Guy put another chunk of cannel coal on the fire, then racked the tongs 
and brushed his hands with his handkerchief; Rosemary came from the kitchen 
and stood motionless in her pain and her just-right hair and her brown velvet; 
and the bartender, by the bedroom door, found things to do with lemon peel and 
napkins and glasses and bottles. He was a prosperous-looking Italian named 
Renato who gave the impression that he tended bar only as a pastime and would 
leave if he got more bored than he already was. 

Then the Wendells came—Ted and Carole—and a minute later Elise 
Dunstan and her husband Hugh, who limped. And then Allan Stone, Guy’s 
agent, with a beautiful Negro model named Rain Morgan, and Jimmy and Tiger, 
and Lou and Claudia Comfort and Claudia’s brother Scott. 

Guy put the coats on the bed; Renato mixed drinks quickly, looking less 
bored. Rosemary pointed and gave names: “Jimmy, Tiger, Rain, Allan, Elise, 
Hugh, Carole, Ted—Claudia and Lou and Scott.” 

Bob and Thea Goodman brought another couple, Peggy and Stan Keeler. 
“Of course it’s all right,” Rosemary said; “don’t be silly, the more the merrier!” 
The Kapps came without coats. “What a trip!” Mr. Kapp (“It’s Bernard”) said. 
“Abus, three trains, and a ferry! We left five hours ago!” 

“Can I look around?” Claudia asked. “If the rest of it’s as nice as this I’m 
going to cut my throat.” 

Mike and Pedro brought bouquets of bright red roses. Pedro, with his cheek 
against Rosemary’s, murmured, “Make him feed you, baby; you look like a 
bottle of iodine.” 



Rosemary said, “Phyllis, Bernard, Peggy, Stan, Thea, Bob, Lou, Scott, 
Carole...” 

She took the roses into the kitchen. Elise came in with a drink and a fake 
cigarette for breaking the habit. “You’re so lucky,” she said; “it’s the greatest 
apartment I’ve ever seen. Will you look at this kitchen? Are you all right, Rosie? 
You look a little tired.” 

“Thanks for the understatement,” Rosemary said. “I’m not all right but I will 
be. I’m pregnant.” 

“You aren’t! How great! When?” 

“June twenty-eighth. I go into my fifth month on Friday.” 

“That’s great!” Elise said. “How do you like C. C. Hill? Isn’t he the 
dreamboy of the western world?” 

“Yes, but I’m not using him,” Rosemary said. 

“No!” 

“I’ve got a doctor named Sapirstein, an older man.” 

“What for? He can’t be better than Hill!” 

“He’s fairly well known and he’s a friend of some friends of ours,” 
Rosemary said. 

Guy looked in. 

Elise said, “Well congratulations, Dad.” 

“Thanks,” Guy said. “Weren’t nothin’ to it. Do you want me to bring in the 
dip, Ro?” 

“Oh, yes, would you? Look at these roses! Mike and Pedro brought them.” 

Guy took a tray of crackers and a bowl of pale pink dip from the table. 
“Would you get the other one?” he asked Elise. 

“Sure,” she said, and took a second bowl and followed after him. 

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Rosemary called. 

Dee Bertillon brought Portia Haynes, an actress, and Joan called to say that 
she and her date had got stuck at another party and would be there in half an 
hour. 

Tiger said, “You dirty stinking secret-keeper!” She grabbed Rosemary and 
kissed her. 

“Who’s pregnant?” someone asked, and someone else said, “Rosemary is.” 

She put one vase of roses on the mantel—“Congratulations,” Rain Morgan 
said, “I understand you’re pregnant”—and the other in the bedroom on the 
dressing table. When she came out Renato made a Scotch and water for her. “I 
make the first ones strong,” he said, “to get them happy. Then I go light and 



conserve.” 

Mike wig-wagged over heads and mouthed Congratulations. She smiled and 
mouthed Thanks. 

“The Trench sisters lived here,” someone said; and Bernard Kapp said, 
“Adrian Marcato too, and Keith Kennedy.” 

“And Pearl Ames,” Phyllis Kapp said. 

“The Trent sisters?” Jimmy asked. 

“Trench,” Phyllis said. “They ate little children.” 

“And she doesn’t mean just ate them,” Pedro said; “she means ate them!” 

Rosemary shut her eyes and held her breath as the pain wound tighter. 
Maybe because of the drink; she put it aside. 

“Are you all right?” Claudia asked her. 

“Yes, fine,” she said, and smiled. “I had a cramp for a moment.” 

Guy was talking with Tiger and Portia Haynes and Dee. “It’s too soon to 
say,” he said; “we’ve only been in rehearsal six days. It plays much better than it 
reads, though.” 

“It couldn’t play much worse,” Tiger said. “Hey, what ever happened to the 
other guy? Is he still blind?” 

“I don’t know,” Guy said. 

Portia said, “Donald Baumgart? You know who he is, Tiger; he’s the boy 
Zoe Piper lives with.” 

“Oh, is he the one?” Tiger said. “Gee, I didn’t know he was someone I 
knew.” 

“He’s writing a great play,” Portia said. “At least the first two scenes are 
great. Really burning anger, like Osborne before he made it.” 

Rosemary said, “Is he still blind?” 

“Oh, yes,” Portia said. “They’ve pretty much given up hope. He’s going 
through hell trying to make the adjustment. But this great play is coming out of 
it. He dictates and Zoe writes.” 

Joan came. Her date was over fifty. She took Rosemary’s arm and pulled her 
aside, looking frightened. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked. “What’s 
wrong ?” 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Rosemary said. “I’m pregnant, that’s all.” 


She was in the kitchen with Tiger, tossing the salad, when Joan and Elise came 
in and closed the door behind them. 



Elise said, “What did you say your doctor’s name was?” 

“Sapirstein,” Rosemary said. 

Joan said, “And he’s satisfied with your condition?” 

Rosemary nodded. 

“Claudia said you had a cramp a while ago.” 

“I have a pain,” she said. “But it’s going to stop soon; it’s not abnormal.” 

Tiger said, “What kind of a pain?” 

“A—a pain. A sharp pain, that’s all. It’s because my pelvis is expanding and 
my joints are a little stiff.” 

Elise said, “Rosie, I’ve had that—two times—and all it ever meant was a 
few days of like a Charley horse, an ache through the whole area.” 

“Well, everyone is different,” Rosemary said, lifting salad between two 
wooden spoons and letting it drop back into the bowl again. “Every pregnancy is 
different.” 

“Not that different,” Joan said. “You look like Miss Concentration Camp of 
1966. Are you sure this doctor knows what he’s doing?” 

Rosemary began to sob, quietly and defeatedly, holding the spoons in the 
salad. Tears ran from her cheeks. 

“Oh, God,” Joan said, and looked for help to Tiger, who touched Rosemary’s 
shoulder and said, “Shh, ah, shh, don’t cry, Rosemary. Shh.” 

“It’s good,” Elise said. “It’s the best thing. Let her. She’s been wound up all 
night like—like I-don’t-know-what.” 

Rosemary wept, black streaks smearing down her cheeks. Elise put her into a 
chair; Tiger took the spoons from her hands and moved the salad bowl to the far 
side of the table. 

The door started to open and Joan ran to it and stopped and blocked it. It was 
Guy. “Hey, let me in,” he said. 

“Sorry,” Joan said. “Girls only.” 

“Let me speak to Rosemary.” 

“Can’t; she’s busy.” 

“Look,” he said, “I’ve got to wash glasses.” 

“Use the bathroom.” She shouldered the door click-closed and leaned 
against it. 

“Damn it, open the door,” he said outside. 

Rosemary went on crying, her head bowed, her shoulders heaving, her hands 
limp in her lap. Elise, crouching, wiped at her cheeks every few moments with 
the end of a towel; Tiger smoothed her hair and tried to still her shoulders. 



The tears slowed. 

“It hurts so much,” she said. She raised her face to them. “And I’m so afraid 
the baby is going to die.” 

“Is he doing anything for you?” Elise asked. “Giving you any medicine, any 
treatment?” 

“Nothing, nothing.” 

Tiger said, “When did it start?” 

She sobbed. 

Elise asked, “When did the pain start, Rosie?” 

“Before Thanksgiving,” she said. “November.” 

Elise said, “In November?” and Joan at the door said, “What?” Tiger said, 
“You’ve been in pain since November and he isn’t doing anything for you?” 

“He says it’ll stop.” 

Joan said, “Has he brought in another doctor to look at you?” 

Rosemary shook her head. “He’s a very good doctor,” she said with Elise 
wiping at her cheeks. “He’s well known. He was on Open End.” 

Tiger said, “He sounds like a sadistic nut, Rosemary.” 

Elise said, “Pain like that is a warning that something’s not right. I’m sorry 
to scare you, Rosie, but you go see Dr. Hill. See somebody besides that—” 

“That nut,” Tiger said. 

Elise said, “He can’t be right, letting you just go on suffering.” 

“I won’t have an abortion,” Rosemary said. 

Joan leaned forward from the door and whispered, “Nobody’s telling you to 
have an abortion! Just go see another doctor, that’s all.” 

Rosemary took the towel from Elise and pressed it to each eye in turn. “He 
said this would happen,” she said, looking at mascara on the towel. “That my 
friends would think their pregnancies were normal and mine wasn’t.” 

“What do you mean?” Tiger asked. 

Rosemary looked at her. “He told me not to listen to what my friends might 
say,” she said. 

Tiger said, “Well you do listen! What kind of sneaky advice is that for a 
doctor to give?” 

Elise said, “All we’re telling you to do is check with another doctor. I don’t 
think any reputable doctor would object to that, if it would help his patient’s 
peace of mind.” 

“You do it,” Joan said. “First thing Monday morning.” 

“I will,” Rosemary said. 



“You promise?” Elise asked. 

Rosemary nodded. “I promise.” She smiled at Elise, and at Tiger and Joan. 
“I feel a lot better,” she said. “Thank you.” 

“Well you look a lot worse,” Tiger said, opening her purse. “Fix your eyes. 
Fix everything.” She put large and small compacts on the table before Rosemary, 
and two long tubes and a short one. 

“Look at my dress,” Rosemary said. 

“A damp cloth,” Elise said, taking the towel and going to the sink with it. 
“The garlic bread!” Rosemary cried. 

“In or out?” Joan asked. 

“In.” Rosemary pointed with a mascara brush at two foil-wrapped loaves on 
top of the refrigerator. 

Tiger began tossing the salad and Elise wiped at the lap of Rosemary’s 
gown. “Next time you’re planning to cry,” she said, “don’t wear velvet.” 

Guy came in and looked at them. 

Tiger said, “We’re trading beauty secrets. You want some?” 

“Are you all right?” he asked Rosemary. 

“Yes, fine,” she said with a smile. 

“A little spilled salad dressing,” Elise said. 

Joan said, “Could the kitchen staff get a round of drinks, do you think?” 


The chupe was a success and so was the salad. (Tiger said under her breath to 
Rosemary, “It’s the tears that give it the extra zing.”) 

Renato approved of the wine, opened it with a flourish, and served it 
solemnly. 

Claudia’s brother Scott, in the den with a plate on his knee, said, “His name 
is Altizer and he’s down in—Atlanta, I think; and what he says is that the death 
of God is a specific historic event that happened right now, in our time. That God 
literally died.” The Kapps and Rain Morgan and Bob Goodman sat listening and 
eating. 

Jimmy, at one of the living-room windows, said, “Hey, it’s beginning to 
snow!” 

Stan Keeler told a string of wicked Polish-jokes and Rosemary laughed out 
loud at them. “Careful of the booze,” Guy murmured at her shoulder. She turned 
and showed him her glass, and said, still laughing, “It’s only ginger ale!” 

Joan’s over-fifty date sat on the floor by her chair, talking up to her earnestly 



and fondling her feet and ankles. Elise talked to Pedro; he nodded, watching 
Mike and Allan across the room. Claudia began reading palms. 

They were low on Scotch but everything else was holding up fine. 

She served coffee, emptied ashtrays, and rinsed out glasses. Tiger and Carole 
Wendell helped her. 

Later she sat in a bay with Hugh Dunstan, sipping coffee and watching fat 
wet snowflakes shear down, an endless army of them, with now and then an 
outrider striking one of the diamond panes and sliding and melting. 

“Year after year I swear I’m going to leave the city,” Hugh Dunstan said; 
“get away from the crime and the noise and all the rest of it. And every year it 
snows or the New Yorker has a Bogart Festival and I’m still here.” 

Rosemary smiled and watched the snow. “This is why I wanted this 
apartment,” she said; “to sit here and watch the snow, with the fire going.” 

Hugh looked at her and said, “I’ll bet you still read Dickens.” 

“Of course I do,” she said. “Nobody stops reading Dickens.” 

Guy came looking for her. “Bob and Thea are leaving,” he said. 


By two o’clock everyone had gone and they were alone in the living room, with 
dirty glasses and used napkins and spilling-over ashtrays all around. (“Don’t 
forget,” Elise had whispered, leaving. Not very likely.) 

“The thing to do now,” Guy said, “is move.” 

“Guy.” 

“Yes?” 

“I’m going to Dr. Hill. Monday morning.” 

He said nothing, looking at her. 

“I want him to examine me,” she said. “Dr. Sapirstein is either lying or else 
he’s—I don’t know, out of his mind. Pain like this is a warning that something is 
wrong.” 

“Rosemary,” Guy said. 

“And I’m not drinking Minnie’s drink any more,” she said. “I want vitamins 
in pills, like everybody else. I haven’t drunk it for three days now. I’ve made her 
leave it here and I’ve thrown it away.” 

“You’ve—” 

“I’ve made my own drink instead,” she said. 

He drew together all his surprise and anger and, pointing back over his 
shoulder toward the kitchen, cried it at her. “Is that what those bitches were 



giving you in there? Is that their hint for today? Change doctors?” 

“They’re my friends,” she said; “don’t call them bitches.” 

“They’re a bunch of not-very-bright bitches who ought to mind their own 
God-damned business.” 

“All they said was get a second opinion.” 

“You’ve got the best doctor in New York, Rosemary. Do you know what Dr. 
Hill is? Charley Nobody, that’s what he is.” 

“I’m tired of hearing how great Dr. Sapirstein is,” she said, starting to cry, 
“when I’ve got this pain inside me since before Thanksgiving and all he does is 
tell me it’s going to stop!” 

“You’re not changing doctors,” Guy said. “We’ll have to pay Sapirstein and 
pay Hill too. It’s out of the question.” 

“I’m not going to change,” Rosemary said; “I’m just going to let Hill 
examine me and give his opinion.” 

“I won’t let you,” Guy said. “It’s—it’s not fair to Sapirstein.” 

“Not fair to— What are you talking about? What about what’s fair to me?” 

“You want another opinion? All right. Tell Sapirstein; let him be the one who 
decides who gives it. At least have that much courtesy to the top man in his 
field.” 

“I want Dr. Hill,” she said. “If you won’t pay I’ll pay my—” She stopped 
short and stood motionless, paralyzed, no part of her moving. A tear slid on a 
curved path toward the corner of her mouth. 

“Ro?” Guy said. 

The pain had stopped. It was gone. Like a stuck auto horn finally put right. 
Like anything that stops and is gone and is gone for good and won’t ever be back 
again, thank merciful heaven. Gone and finished and oh, how good she might 
possibly feel as soon as she caught her breath! 

“Ro?” Guy said, and took a step forward, worried. 

“It stopped,” she said. “The pain.” 

“Stopped?” he said. 

“Just now.” She managed to smile at him. “It stopped. Just like that.” She 
closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and deeper still, deeper than she had 
been allowed to breathe for ages and ages. Since before Thanksgiving. 

When she opened her eyes Guy was still looking at her, still looking worried. 

“What was in the drink you made?” he asked. 

Her heart dropped out of her. She had killed the baby. With the sherry. Or a 
bad egg. Or the combination. The baby had died, the pain had stopped. The pain 



was the baby and she had killed it with her arrogance. 

“An egg,” she said. “Milk. Cream. Sugar.” She blinked, wiped at her cheek, 
looked at him. “Sherry,” she said, trying to make it sound non-toxic. 

“How much sherry?” he asked. 

Something moved in her. 

“A lot?” 

Again, where nothing had ever moved before. A rippling little pressure. She 
giggled. 

“Rosemary, for Christ’s sake, how much?” 

“It’s alive,” she said, and giggled again. “It’s moving. It’s all right; it isn’t 
dead. It’s moving.” She looked down at her brown-velvet stomach and put her 
hands on it and pressed in lightly. Now two things were moving, two hands or 
feet; one here, one there. 

She reached for Guy, not looking at him; snapped her fingers quickly for his 
hand. He came closer and gave it. She put it to the side of her stomach and held 
it there. Obligingly the movement came. “You feel it?” she asked, looking at 
him. “There, again; you feel it?” 

He jerked his hand away, pale. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. I felt it.” 

“It’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said, laughing. “It won’t bite you.” 

“It’s wonderful,” he said. 

“Isn’t it?” She held her stomach again, looking down at it. “It’s alive. It’s 
kicking. It’s in there.” 

“I’ll clean up some of this mess,” Guy said, and picked up an ashtray and a 
glass and another glass. 

“All right now, David-or-Amanda,” Rosemary said, “you’ve made your 
presence known, so kindly settle down and let Mommy attend to the cleaning 
up.” She laughed. “My God,” she said, “it’s so active! That means a boy, doesn’t 
it?” 

She said, “All right, you, just take it easy. You’ve got five more months yet, 
so save your energy.” 

And laughing, “Talk to it, Guy; you’re its father. Tell it not to be so 
impatient.” 

And she laughed and laughed and was crying too, holding her stomach with 
both hands. 



CHAPTER 6 


AS BAD as it had been before, that was how good it was now. With the stopping 
of the pain came sleep, great dreamless ten-hour spans of it; and with the sleep 
came hunger, for meat that was cooked, not raw, for eggs and vegetables and 
cheese and fruit and milk. Within days Rosemary’s skull-face had lost its edges 
and sunk back behind filling-in flesh; within weeks she looked the way pregnant 
women are supposed to look: lustrous, healthy, proud, prettier than ever. 

She drank Minnie’s drink as soon as it was given to her, and drank it to the 
last chill drop, driving away as by a ritual the remembered guilt of I-killed-the- 
baby. With the drink now came a cake of white gritty sweet stuff like marzipan; 
this too she ate at once, as much from enjoyment of its candylike taste as from a 
resolve to be the most conscientious expectant mother in all the world. 

Dr. Sapirstein might have been smug about the pain’s stopping, but he 
wasn’t, bless him. He simply said “It’s about time” and put his stethoscope to 
Rosemary’s really-showing-now belly. Listening to the stirring baby, he betrayed 
an excitement that was unexpected in a man who had guided hundreds upon 
hundreds of pregnancies. It was this undimmed first-time excitement, Rosemary 
thought, that probably marked the difference between a great obstetrician and a 
merely good one. 

She bought maternity clothes; a two-piece black dress, a beige suit, a red 
dress with white polka dots. Two weeks after their own party, she and Guy went 
to one given by Lou and Claudia Comfort. “I can’t get over the change in you!” 
Claudia said, holding onto both Rosemary’s hands. “You look a hundred per cent 
better, Rosemary! A thousand percent!” 

And Mrs. Gould across the hall said, “You know, we were quite concerned 



about you a few weeks ago; you looked so drawn and uncomfortable. But now 
you look like an entirely different person, really you do. Arthur remarked on the 
change just last evening.” 

“I feel much better now,” Rosemary said. “Some pregnancies start out bad 
and turn good, and some go the other way around. I’m glad I’ve had the bad first 
and have gotten it out of the way.” 

She was aware now of minor pains that had been overshadowed by the 
major one—aches in her spinal muscles and her swollen breasts—but these 
discomforts had been mentioned as typical in the paperback book Dr. Sapirstein 
had made her throw away; they felt typical too, and they increased rather than 
lessened her sense of well-being. Salt was still nauseating, but what, after all, 
was salt? 

Guy’s show, with its director changed twice and its title changed three times, 
opened in Philadelphia in mid-February. Dr. Sapirstein didn’t allow Rosemary to 
go along on the try-out-tour, and so on the afternoon of the opening, she and 
Minnie and Roman drove to Philadelphia with Jimmy and Tiger, in Jimmy’s 
antique Packard. The drive was a less than joyous one. Rosemary and Jimmy 
and Tiger had seen a barestage run-through of the play before the company left 
New York and they were doubtful of its chances. The best they hoped for was 
that Guy would be singled out for praise by one or more of the critics, a hope 
Roman encouraged by citing instances of great actors who had come to notice in 
plays of little or no distinction. 

With sets and costumes and lighting the play was still tedious and verbose; 
the party afterwards was broken up into small separate enclaves of silent gloom. 
Guy’s mother, having flown down from Montreal, insisted to their group that 
Guy was superb and the play was superb. Small, blonde, and vivacious, she 
chirped her confidence to Rosemary and Allan Stone and Jimmy and Tiger and 
Guy himself and Minnie and Roman. Minnie and Roman smiled serenely; the 
others sat and worried. Rosemary thought that Guy had been even better than 
superb, but she had thought so too on seeing him in Luther and Nobody Loves An 
Albatross, in neither of which he had attracted critical attention. 

Two reviews came in after midnight; both panned the play and lavished Guy 
with enthusiastic praise, in one case two solid paragraphs of it. A third review, 
which appeared the next morning, was headed Dazzling Performance Sparks 
New Comedy-Drama and spoke of Guy as “a virtually unknown young actor of 
slashing authority” who was “sure to go on to bigger and better productions.” 

The ride back to New York was far happier than the ride out. 



Rosemary found much to keep her busy while Guy was away. There was the 
white-and-yellow nursery wallpaper finally to be ordered, and the crib and the 
bureau and the bathinette. There were long-postponed letters to be written, 
telling the family all the news; there were baby clothes and more maternity 
clothes to be shopped for; there were assorted decisions to be made, about birth 
announcements and breast-or-bottle and the name, the name, the name. Andrew 
or Douglas or David; Amanda or Jenny or Hope. 

And there were exercises to be done, morning and evening, for she was 
having the baby by natural childbirth. She had strong feelings on the subject and 
Dr. Sapirstein concurred with them wholeheartedly. He would give her an 
anesthetic only if at the very last moment she asked for one. Lying on the floor, 
she raised her legs straight up in the air and held them there for a count of ten; 
she practiced shallow breathing and panting, imagining the sweaty triumphant 
moment when she would see whatever-its-name-was coming inch by inch out of 
her effectively helping body. 

She spent evenings at Minnie and Roman’s, one at the Kapps’, and another 
at Hugh and Elise Dunstan’s. (“You don’t have a nurse yet?” Elise asked. “You 
should have arranged for one long ago; they’ll all be booked by now.” But Dr. 
Sapirstein, when she called him about it the next day, told her that he had lined 
up a fine nurse who would stay with her for as long as she wanted after the 
delivery. Hadn’t he mentioned it before? Miss Fitzpatrick; one of the best.) 

Guy called every second or third night after the show. He told Rosemary of 
the changes that were being made and of the rave he had got in Variety; she told 
him about Miss Fitzpatrick and the wallpaper and the shaped-all-wrong bootees 
that Laura-Louise was knitting. 

The show folded after fifteen performances and Guy was home again, only 
to leave two days later for California and a Warner Brothers screen test. And 
then he was home for good, with two great next-season parts to choose from and 
thirteen half-hour Greenwich Village’s to do. Warner Brothers made an offer and 
Allan turned it down. 

The baby kicked like a demon. Rosemary told it to stop or she would start 
kicking back. 

Her sister Margaret’s husband called to tell of the birth of an eight-pound 
boy, Kevin Michael, and later a too-cute announcement came—an impossibly 
rosy baby megaphoning his name, birth date, weight, and length. (Guy said, 
“What, no blood type?”) Rosemary decided on simple engraved announcements, 
with nothing but the baby’s name, their name, and the date. And it would be 



Andrew John or Jennifer Susan. Definitely. Breast-fed, not bottle-fed. 

They moved the television set into the living room and gave the rest of the 
den furniture to friends who could use it. The wallpaper came, was perfect, and 
was hung; the crib and bureau and bathinette came and were placed first one way 
and then another. Into the bureau Rosemary put receiving blankets, waterproof 
pants, and shirts so tiny that, holding one up, she couldn’t keep from laughing. 

“Andrew John Woodhouse,” she said, “stop it! You’ve got two whole 
months yet!” 

They celebrated their second anniversary and Guy’s thirty-third birthday; 
they gave another party—a sit-down dinner for the Dunstans, the Chens, and 
Jimmy and Tiger; they saw Morgan! and a preview of Mame. 

Bigger and bigger Rosemary grew, her breasts lifting higher atop her 
ballooning belly that was drum-solid with its navel flattened away, that rippled 
and jutted with the movements of the baby inside it. She did her exercises 
morning and evening, lifting her legs, sitting on her heels, shallow-breathing, 
panting. 

At the end of May, when she went into her ninth month, she packed a small 
suitcase with the things she would need at the hospital—nightgowns, nursing 
brassieres, a new quilted housecoat, and so on—and set it ready by the bedroom 
door. 


On Friday, June 3rd, Hutch died in his bed at St. Vincent’s Hospital. Axel Allert, 
his son-in-law, called Rosemary on Saturday morning and told her the news. 
There would be a memorial service on Tuesday morning at eleven, he said, at the 
Ethical Culture Center on West Sixty-fourth Street. 

Rosemary wept, partly because Hutch was dead and partly because she had 
all but forgotten him in the past few months and felt now as if she had hastened 
his dying. Once or twice Grace Cardiff had called and once Rosemary had called 
Doris Allert; but she hadn’t gone to see Hutch; there had seemed no point in it 
when he was still frozen in coma, and having been restored to health herself, she 
had been averse to being near someone sick, as if she and the baby might 
somehow have been endangered by the nearness. 

Guy, when he heard the news, turned bloodless gray and was silent and self- 
enclosed for several hours. Rosemary was surprised by the depth of his reaction. 

She went alone to the memorial service; Guy was filming and couldn’t get 
free and Joan begged off with a virus. Some fifty people were there, in a 



handsome paneled auditorium. The service began soon after eleven and was 
quite short. Axel Allert spoke, and then another man who apparently had known 
Hutch for many years. Afterwards Rosemary followed the general movement 
toward the front of the auditorium and said a word of sympathy to the Allerts 
and to Hutch’s other daughter, Edna, and her husband. A woman touched her 
arm and said, “Excuse me, you’re Rosemary, aren’t you?”—a stylishly dressed 
woman in her early fifties, with gray hair and an exceptionally fine complexion. 
“I’m Grace Cardiff.” 

Rosemary took her hand and greeted her and thanked her for the phone calls 
she had made. 

“I was going to mail this last evening,” Grace Cardiff said, holding a book- 
size brown-paper package, “and then I realized that I’d probably be seeing you 
this morning.” She gave Rosemary the package; Rosemary saw her own name 
and address printed on it, and Grace Cardiff’s return address. 

“What is it?” she asked. 

“It’s a book Hutch wanted you to have; he was very emphatic about it.” 

Rosemary didn’t understand. 

“He was conscious at the end for a few minutes,” Grace Cardiff said. “I 
wasn’t there, but he told a nurse to tell me to give you the book on his desk. 
Apparently he was reading it the night he was stricken. He was very insistent, 
told the nurse two or three times and made her promise not to forget. And I’m to 
tell you that ‘the name is an anagram.’” 

“The name of the book?” 

“Apparently. He was delirious, so it’s hard to be sure. He seemed to fight his 
way out of the coma and then die of the effort. First he thought it was the next 
morning, the morning after the coma began, and he spoke about having to meet 
you at eleven o’clock—” 

“Yes, we had an appointment,” Rosemary said. 

“And then he seemed to realize what had happened and he began telling the 
nurse that I was to give you the book. He repeated himself a few times and that 
was the end.” Grace Cardiff smiled as if she were making pleasant conversation. 
“It’s an English book about witchcraft,” she said. 

Rosemary, looking doubtfully at the package, said, “I can’t imagine why he 
wanted me to have it.” 

“He did though, so there you are. And the name is an anagram. Sweet Hutch. 
He made everything sound like a boy’s adventure, didn’t he?” 

They walked together out of the auditorium and out of the building onto the 



sidewalk. 

“I’m going uptown; can I drop you anywhere?” Grace Cardiff asked. 

“No, thank you,” Rosemary said. “I’m going down and across.” 

They went to the corner. Other people who had been at the service were 
hailing taxis; one pulled up, and the two men who had got it offered it to 
Rosemary. She tried to decline and, when the men insisted, offered it to Grace 
Cardiff, who wouldn’t have it either. “Certainly not,” she said. “Take full 
advantage of your lovely condition. When is the baby due?” 

“June twenty-eighth,” Rosemary said. Thanking the men, she got into the 
cab. It was a small one and getting into it wasn’t easy. 

“Good luck,” Grace Cardiff said, closing the door. 

“Thank you,” Rosemary said, “and thank you for the book.” To the driver 
she said, “The Bramford, please.” She smiled through the open window at Grace 
Cardiff as the cab pulled away. 



CHAPTER 7 


SHE THOUGHT of unwrapping the book there in the cab, but it was a cab that 
had been fitted out by its driver with extra ashtrays and mirrors and hand-lettered 
pleas for cleanliness and consideration, and the string and the paper would have 
been too much of a nuisance. So she went home first and got out of her shoes, 
dress, and girdle, and into slippers and a new gigantic peppermint-striped smock. 

The doorbell rang and she went to answer it holding the still-unopened 
package; it was Minnie with the drink and the little white cake. “I heard you 
come in,” she said. “It certainly wasn’t very long.” 

“It was nice,” Rosemary said, taking the glass. “His son-in-law and another 
man talked a little about what he was like and why he’ll be missed, and that was 
it.” She drank some of the thin pale-green. 

“That sounds like a sensible way of doing it,” Minnie said. “You got mail 
already?” 

“No, someone gave it to me,” Rosemary said, and drank again, deciding not 
to go into who and why and the whole story of Hutch’s return to consciousness. 

“Here, I’ll hold it,” Minnie said, and took the package—“Oh, thanks,” 
Rosemary said—so that Rosemary could take the white cake. 

Rosemary ate and drank. 

“A book?” Minnie asked, weighing the package. 

“Mm-hmm. She was going to mail it and then she realized she’d be seeing 
me.” 

Minnie read the return address. “Oh, I know that house,” she said. “The 
Gilmores used to live there before they moved over to where they are now.” 

“Oh?” 



“I’ve been there lots of times. ‘Grace.’ That’s one of my favorite names. One 
of your girl friends?” 

“Yes,” Rosemary said; it was easier than explaining and it made no 
difference really. 

She finished the cake and the drink, and took the package from Minnie and 
gave her the glass. “Thanks,” she said, smiling. 

“Say listen,” Minnie said, “Roman’s going down to the cleaner in a while; 
do you have anything to go or pick up?” 

“No, nothing, thanks. Will we see you later?” 

“Sure. Take a nap, why don’t you?” 

“I’m going to. ’By.” 

She closed the door and went into the kitchen. With a paring knife she cut 
the string of the package and undid its brown paper. The book within was All Of 
Them Witches by J. R. Hanslet. It was a black book, not new, its gold lettering all 
but worn away. On the flyleaf was Hutch’s signature, with the inscription 
Torquay, 1934 beneath it. At the bottom of the inside cover was a small blue 
sticker imprinted J. Waghorn & Son, Booksellers. 

Rosemary took the book into the living room, riffling its pages as she went. 
There were occasional photographs of respectable-looking Victorians, and, in the 
text, several of Hutch’s underlinings and marginal checkmarks that she 
recognized from books he had lent her in the Higgins-Eliza period of their 
friendship. One underlined phrase was “the fungus they call ‘Devil’s Pepper.’” 

She sat in one of the window bays and looked at the table of contents. The 
name Adrian Marcato jumped to her eye; it was the title of the fourth chapter. 
Other chapters dealt with other people—all of them, it was to be presumed from 
the book’s title, witches: Gilles de Rais, Jane Wenham, Aleister Crowley, 
Thomas Weir. The final chapters were Witch Practices and Witchcraft and 
Satanism. 

Turning to the fourth chapter, Rosemary glanced over its twenty-odd pages; 
Marcato was born in Glasgow in 1846, he was brought soon after to New York 
(underlined), and he died on the island of Corfu in 1922. There were accounts of 
the 1896 tumult when he claimed to have called forth Satan and was attacked by 
a mob outside the Bramford (not in the lobby as Hutch had said), and of similar 
happenings in Stockholm in 1898 and Paris in 1899. He was a hypnotic-eyed 
black-bearded man who, in a standing portrait, looked fleetingly familiar to 
Rosemary. Overleaf there was a less formal photograph of him sitting at a Paris 
cafe table with his wife Hessia and his son Steven (underlined). 



Was this why Hutch had wanted her to have the book; so that she could read 
in detail about Adrian Marcato? But why? Hadn’t he issued his warnings long 
ago, and acknowledged later on that they were unjustified? She flipped through 
the rest of the book, pausing near the end to read other underlinings. “The 
stubborn fact remains,” one read, “that whether or not we believe, they most 
assuredly do.” And a few pages later: “the universally held belief in the power of 
fresh blood.” And “surrounded by candles, which needless to say are also 
black.” 

The black candles Minnie had brought over on the night of the power failure. 
Hutch had been struck by them and had begun asking questions about Minnie 
and Roman. Was this the book’s meaning; that they were witches ? Minnie with 
her herbs and tannis-charms, Roman with his piercing eyes? But there were no 
witches, were there? Not really. 

She remembered then the other part of Hutch’s message, that the name of the 
book was an anagram. All Of Them Witches. She tried to juggle the letters in her 
head, to transpose them into something meaningful, revealing. She couldn’t; 
there were too many of them to keep track of. She needed a pencil and paper. Or 
better yet, the Scrabble set. 

She got it from the bedroom and, sitting in the bay again, put the unopened 
board on her knees and picked out from the box beside her the letters to spell All 
Of Them Witches. The baby, which had been still all morning, began moving 
inside her. You’re going to be a born Scrabble-player, she thought, smiling. It 
kicked. “Hey, easy,” she said. 

With All Of Them Witches laid out on the board, she jumbled the letters and 
mixed them around, then looked to see what else could be made of them. She 
found comes with the fall and, after a few minutes of rearranging the flat wood 
tiles, how is hell fact met. Neither of which seemed to mean anything. Nor was 
there revelation in who shall meet it, we that chose ill, and if he shall come, all of 
which weren’t real anagrams anyway, since they used less than the full 
complement of letters. It was foolishness. How could the title of a book have a 
hidden anagram message for her and her alone? Hutch had been delirious; hadn’t 
Grace Cardiff said so? Time-wasting. Elf shot lame witch. Tell me which fatso. 

But maybe it was the name of the author, not the book, that was the 
anagram. Maybe J. R. Hanslet was a pen name; it didn’t sound like a real one, 
when you stopped to think about it. 

She took new letters. 

The baby kicked. 



J. R. Hanslet was Jan Shrelt. Or J. H. Snartle. 

Now that really made sense. 

Poor Hutch. 

She took up the board and tilted it, spilling the letters back into the box. 

The book, which lay open on the window seat beyond the box, had turned its 
pages to the picture of Adrian Marcato and his wife and son. Perhaps Hutch had 
pressed hard there, holding it open while he underlined “Steven.” 

The baby lay quiet in her, not moving. 

She put the board on her knees again and took from the box the letters of 
Steven Marcato. When the name lay spelled before her, she looked at it for a 
moment and then began transposing the letters. With no false moves and no 
wasted motion she made them into Roman Castevet. 

And then again into Steven Marcato. 

And then again into Roman Castevet. 

The baby stirred ever so slightly. 


She read the chapter on Adrian Marcato and the one called Witch Practices, and 
then she went into the kitchen and ate some tuna salad and lettuce and tomatoes, 
thinking about what she had read. 

She was just beginning the chapter called Witchcraft and Satanism when the 
front door unlocked and was pushed against the chain. The doorbell rang as she 
went to see who it was. It was Guy. 

“What’s with the chain?” he asked when she had let him in. 

She said nothing, closing the door and rechaining it. 

“What’s the matter?” He had a bunch of daisies and a box from Bronzini. 
“I’ll tell you inside,” she said as he gave her the daisies and a kiss. 

“Are you all right?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she said. She went into the kitchen. 

“How was the memorial?” 

“Very nice. Very short.” 

“I got the shirt that was in The New Yorker,” he said, going to the bedroom. 
“Hey,” he called, “On A Clear Day and Skyscraper are both closing.” 

She put the daisies in a blue pitcher and brought them into the living room. 
Guy came in and showed her the shirt. She admired it. 

Then she said, “Do you know who Roman really is?” 

Guy looked at her, blinked, and frowned. “What do you mean, honey?” he 



said. “He’s Roman.” 

“He’s Adrian Marcato’s son,” she said. “The man who said he conjured up 
Satan and was attacked downstairs by a mob. Roman is his son Steven. 'Roman 
Castevet’ is 'Steven Marcato’ rearranged—an anagram.” 

Guy said, “Who told you?” 

“Hutch,” Rosemary said. She told Guy about All Of Them Witches and 
Hutch’s message. She showed him the book, and he put aside his shirt and took 
it and looked at it, looked at the title page and the table of contents and then 
sprung the pages out slowly from under his thumb, looking at all of them. 

“There he is when he was thirteen,” Rosemary said. “See the eyes?” 

“It might just possibly be a coincidence,” Guy said. 

“And another coincidence that he’s living here? In the same house Steven 
Marcato was brought up in?” Rosemary shook her head. “The ages match too,” 
she said. “Steven Marcato was born in August, 1886, which would make him 
seventy-nine now. Which is what Roman is. It’s no coincidence.” 

“No, I guess it’s not,” Guy said, springing out more pages. “I guess he’s 
Steven Marcato, all right. The poor old geezer. No wonder he switched his name 
around, with a crazy father like that.” 

Rosemary looked at Guy uncertainly and said, “You don’t think he’s—the 
same as his father?” 

“What do you mean?” Guy said, and smiled at her. “A witch? A devil 
worshiper?” 

She nodded. 

“Ro,” he said. “Are you kidding? Do you really —” He laughed and gave the 
book back to her. “Ah, Ro, honey,” he said. 

“It’s a religion,” she said. “It’s an early religion that got—pushed into the 
corner.” 

“All right,” he said, “but today?” 

“His father was a martyr to it,” she said. “That’s how it must look to him. Do 
you know where Adrian Marcato died? In a stable. On Corfu. Wherever that is. 
Because they wouldn’t let him into the hotel. Really. 'No room at the inn.’ So he 
died in the stable. And he was with him. Roman. Do you think he’s given it up 
after that?” 

“Honey, it’s 1966,” Guy said. 

“This book was published in 1933,” Rosemary said; “there were covens in 
Europe—that’s what they’re called, the groups, the congregations; covens—in 
Europe, in North and South America, in Australia; do you think they’ve all died 



out in just thirty-three years? They’ve got a coven here, Minnie and Roman, with 
Laura-Louise and the Fountains and the Gilmores and the Weeses; those parties 
with the flute and the chanting, those are sabbaths or esbats or whatever-they- 
are!” 

“Honey,” Guy said, “don’t get excited. Let’s—” 

“Read what they do, Guy,” she said, holding the book open at him and 
jabbing a page with her forefinger. “They use blood in their rituals, because 
blood has power, and the blood that has the most power is a baby’s blood, a baby 
that hasn’t been baptized; and they use more than the blood, they use the flesh 
too!” 

“For God’s sake, Rosemary!” 

“Why have they been so friendly to us?” she demanded. 

“Because they’re friendly people! What do you think they are, maniacs?” 

“Yes! Yes. Maniacs who think they have magic power, who think they’re 
real storybook witches, who perform all sorts of crazy rituals and practices 
because they’re—sick and crazy maniacs!” 

“Honey—” 

“Those black candles Minnie brought us were from the black mass! That’s 
how Hutch caught on. And their living room is clear in the middle so that they 
have room.” 

“Honey,” Guy said, “they’re old people and they have a bunch of old friends, 
and Dr. Shand happens to play the recorder. You can get black candles right 
down in the hardware store, and red ones and green ones and blue ones. And 
their living room is clear because Minnie is a lousy decorator. Roman’s father 
was a nut, okay; but that’s no reason to think that Roman is too.” 

“They’re not setting foot in this apartment ever again,” Rosemary said. 
“Either one of them. Or Laura-Louise or any of the others. And they’re not 
coming within fifty feet of the baby.” 

“The fact that Roman changed his name proves that he’s not like his father,” 
Guy said. “If he were he’d be proud of the name and would have kept it.” 

“He did keep it,” Rosemary said. “He switched it around, but he didn’t really 
change it for something else. And this way he can get into hotels.” She went 
away from Guy, to the window where the Scrabble set lay. “I won’t let them in 
again,” she said. “And as soon as the baby is old enough I want to sub-let and 
move. I don’t want them near us. Hutch was right; we never should have moved 
in here.” She looked out the window, holding the book clamped in both hands, 
trembling. 



Guy watched her for a moment. “What about Dr. Sapirstein?” he said. “Is he 
in the coven too?” 

She turned and looked at him. 

“After all,” he said, “there’ve been maniac doctors, haven’t there? His big 
ambition is probably to make house calls on a broomstick.” 

She turned to the window again, her face sober. “No, I don’t think he’s one 
of them,” she said. “He’s—too intelligent.” 

“And besides, he’s Jewish,” Guy said and laughed. “Well, I’m glad you’ve 
exempted somebody from your McCarthy-type smear campaign. Talk about 
witch-hunting, wow! And guilt by association.” 

“I’m not saying they’re really witches,” Rosemary said. “I know they 
haven’t got real power. But there are people who do believe, even if we don’t; 
just the way my family believes that God hears their prayers and that the wafer is 
the actual body of Jesus. Minnie and Roman believe their religion, believe it and 
practice it, I know they do; and I’m not going to take any chances with the 
baby’s safety.” 

“We’re not going to sub-let and move,” Guy said. 

“Yes we are,” Rosemary said, turning to him. 

He picked up his new shirt. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said. 

“He lied to you,” she said. “His father wasn’t a producer. He didn’t have 
anything to do with the theater at all.” 

“All right, so he’s a bullthrower,” Guy said; “who the hell isn’t?” He went 
into the bedroom. 

Rosemary sat down next to the Scrabble set. She closed it and, after a 
moment, opened the book and began again to read the final chapter, Witchcraft 
and Satanism. 

Guy came back in without the shirt. “I don’t think you ought to read any 
more of that,” he said. 

Rosemary said, “I just want to read this last chapter.” 

“Not today, honey,” Guy said, coming to her; “you’ve got yourself worked 
up enough as it is. It’s not good for you or the baby.” He put his hand out and 
waited for her to give him the book. 

“I’m not worked up,” she said. 

“You’re shaking,” he said. “You’ve been shaking for five minutes now. 
Come on, give it to me. You’ll read it tomorrow.” 

“Guy—” 

“No,” he said. “I mean it. Come on, give it to me.” 



She said “Ohh” and gave it to him. He went over to the bookshelves, 
stretched up, and put it as high as he could reach, across the tops of the two 
Kinsey Reports. 

“You’ll read it tomorrow,” he said. “You’ve had too much stirring-up today 
already, with the memorial and all.” 



CHAPTER 8 


DR. SAPIRSTEIN was amazed. “Fantastic,” he said. “Absolutely fantastic. 
What did you say the name was, ‘Machado’?” 

“Marcato,” Rosemary said. 

“Fantastic,” Dr. Sapirstein said. “I had no idea whatsoever. I think he told me 
once that his father was a coffee importer. Yes, I remember him going on about 
different grades and different ways of grinding the beans.” 

“He told Guy that he was a producer.” 

Dr. Sapirstein shook his head. “It’s no wonder he’s ashamed of the truth,” he 
said. “And it’s no wonder that you ’re upset at having discovered it. I’m as sure 
as I am of anything on earth that Roman doesn’t hold any of his father’s weird 
beliefs, but I can understand completely how disturbed you must be to have him 
for a close neighbor.” 

“I don’t want anything more to do with him or Minnie,” Rosemary said. 
“Maybe I’m being unfair, but I don’t want to take even the slightest chance 
where the baby’s safety is concerned.” 

“Absolutely,” Dr. Sapirstein said. “Any mother would feel the same way.” 

Rosemary leaned forward. “Is there any chance at all,” she said, “that 
Minnie put something harmful in the drink or in those little cakes?” 

Dr. Sapirstein laughed. “I’m sorry, dear,” he said; “I don’t mean to laugh, but 
really, she’s such a kind old woman and so concerned for the baby’s well¬ 
being...No, there’s no chance at all that she gave you anything harmful. I would 
have seen evidence of it long ago, in you or in the baby.” 

“I called her on the house phone and told her I wasn’t feeling well. I won’t 
take anything else from her.” 



“You won’t have to,” Dr. Sapirstein said. “I can give you some pills that will 
be more than adequate in these last few weeks. In a way this may be the answer 
to Minnie and Roman’s problem too.” 

“What do you mean?” Rosemary said. 

“They want to go away,” Dr. Sapirstein said, “and rather soon. Roman isn’t 
well, you know. In fact, and in the strictest of confidence, he hasn’t got more 
than a month or two left to him. He wants to pay a last visit to a few of his 
favorite cities and they were afraid you might take offense at their leaving on the 
eve of the baby’s birth, so to speak. They broached the subject to me the night 
before last, wanted to know how I thought you would take it. They don’t want to 
upset you by telling you the real reason for the trip.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that Roman isn’t well,” Rosemary said. 

“But glad at the prospect of his leaving?” Dr. Sapirstein smiled. “A perfectly 
reasonable reaction,” he said, “all things considered. Suppose we do this, 
Rosemary: I’ll tell them that I’ve sounded you out and you aren’t at all offended 
by the idea of their going; and until they do go—they mentioned Sunday as a 
possibility—you continue as before, not letting Roman know that you’ve learned 
his true identity. I’m sure he would be embarrassed and unhappy if he knew, and 
it seems a shame to upset him when it’s only a matter of three or four more 
days.” 

Rosemary was silent for a moment, and then she said, “Are you sure they’ll 
be leaving on Sunday?” 

“I know they’d like to,” Dr. Sapirstein said. 

Rosemary considered. “All right,” she said; “I’ll go on as before, but only 
until Sunday.” 

“If you’d like,” Dr. Sapirstein said, “I can have those pills sent over to you 
tomorrow morning; you can get Minnie to leave the drink and the cake with you 
and throw them away and take a pill instead.” 

“That would be wonderful,” Rosemary said. “I’d be much happier that way.” 

“That’s the main thing at this stage,” Dr. Sapirstein said, “keeping you 
happy.” 

Rosemary smiled. “If it’s a boy,” she said, “I may just name him Abraham 
Sapirstein Woodhouse.” 

“God forbid,” Dr. Sapirstein said. 

Guy, when he heard the news, was as pleased as Rosemary. “I’m sorry 
Roman is on his last lap,” he said, “but I’m glad for your sake that they’re going 
away. I’m sure you’ll feel more relaxed now.” 



“Oh, I will,” Rosemary said. “I feel better already, just knowing about it.” 


Apparently Dr. Sapirstein didn’t waste any time in telling Roman about 
Rosemary’s supposed feelings, for that same evening Minnie and Roman 
stopped by and broke the news that they were going to Europe. “Sunday 
morning at ten,” Roman said. “We fly directly to Paris, where we’ll stay for a 
week or so, and then we’ll go on to Zurich, Venice, and the loveliest city in all 
the world, Dubrovnik, in Yugoslavia.” 

“I’m green with envy,” Guy said. 

Roman said to Rosemary, “I gather this doesn’t come as a complete bolt 
from the blue, does it, my dear?” A conspirator’s gleam winked from his deep- 
socketed eyes. 

“Dr. Sapirstein mentioned you were thinking of going,” Rosemary said. 

Minnie said, “We’d have loved to stay till the baby came—” 

“You’d be foolish to,” Rosemary said, “now that the hot weather is here.” 

“We’ll send you all kinds of pictures,” Guy said. 

“But when Roman gets the wanderlust,” Minnie said, “there’s just no 
holding him.” 

“It’s true, it’s true,” Roman said. “After a lifetime of traveling I find it all but 
impossible to stay in one city for more than a year; and it’s been fourteen months 
now since we came back from Japan and the Philippines.” 

He told them about Dubrovnik’s special charms, and Madrid’s, and the Isle 
of Skye’s. Rosemary watched him, wondering which he really was, an amiable 
old talker or the mad son of a mad father. 

The next day Minnie made no fuss at all about leaving the drink and the 
cake; she was on her way out with a long list of going-away jobs to do. 
Rosemary offered to pick up a dress at the cleaner’s for her and buy toothpaste 
and dramamine. When she threw away the drink and the cake and took one of 
the large white capsules Dr. Sapirstein had sent, she felt just the slightest bit 
ridiculous. 

On Saturday morning Minnie said, “You know, don’t you, about who 
Roman’s father was.” 

Rosemary nodded, surprised. 

“I could tell by the way you turned sort of cool to us,” Minnie said. “Oh, 
don’t apologize, dear; you’re not the first and you won’t be the last. I can’t say 
that I really blame you. Oh, I could kill that crazy old man if he wasn’t dead 



already! He’s been the bane in poor Roman’s existence! That’s why he likes to 
travel so much; he always wants to leave a place before people can find out who 
he is. Don’t let on to him that you know, will you? He’s so fond of you and Guy, 
it would near about break his heart. I want him to have a real happy trip with no 
sorrows, because there aren’t likely to be many more. Trips, I mean. Would you 
like the perishables in my icebox? Send Guy over later on and I’ll load him up.” 


Laura-Louise gave a bon voyage party Saturday night in her small dark tannis- 
smelling apartment on the twelfth floor. The Weeses and the Gilmores came, and 
Mrs. Sabatini with her cat Flash, and Dr. Shand. (How had Guy known that it 
was Dr. Shand who played the recorder? Rosemary wondered. And that it was a 
recorder, not a flute or a clarinet? She would have to ask him.) Roman told of his 
and Minnie’s planned itinerary, surprising Mrs. Sabatini, who couldn’t believe 
they were bypassing Rome and Florence. Laura-Louise served home-made 
cookies and a mildly alcoholic fruit punch. Conversation turned to tornadoes and 
civil rights. Rosemary, watching and listening to these people who were much 
like her aunts and uncles in Omaha, found it hard to maintain her belief that they 
were in fact a coven of witches. Little Mr. Wees, listening to Guy talking about 
Martin Luther King; could such a feeble old man, even in his dreams, imagine 
himself a caster of spells, a maker of charms? And dowdy old women like 
Laura-Louise and Minnie and Helen Wees; could they really bring themselves to 
cavort naked in mock-religious orgies? (Yet hadn’t she seen them that way, seen 
all of them naked? No, no, that was a dream, a wild dream that she’d had a long, 
long time ago.) 

The Fountains phoned a good-by to Minnie and Roman, and so did Dr. 
Sapirstein and two or three other people whose names Rosemary didn’t know. 
Laura-Louise brought out a gift that everyone had chipped in for, a transistor 
radio in a pigskin carrying case, and Roman accepted it with an eloquent thank- 
you speech, his voice breaking. He knows he’s going to die, Rosemary thought, 
and was genuinely sorry for him. 

Guy insisted on lending a hand the next morning despite Roman’s protests; 
he set the alarm clock for eight-thirty and, when it went off, hopped into chinos 
and a T shirt and went around to Minnie and Roman’s door. Rosemary went with 
him in her peppermint-striped smock. There was little to carry; two suitcases and 
a hatbox. Minnie wore a camera and Roman his new radio. “Anyone who needs 
more than one suitcase,” he said as he double-locked their door, “is a tourist, not 



a traveler.” 


On the sidewalk, while the doorman blew his whistle at oncoming cars, 
Roman checked through tickets, passport, traveler’s checks, and French 
currency. Minnie took Rosemary by the shoulders. “No matter where we are,” 
she said, “our thoughts are going to be with you every minute, darling, till you’re 
all happy and thin again with your sweet little boy or girl lying safe in your 
arms.” 

“Thank you,” Rosemary said, and kissed Minnie’s cheek. “Thank you for 
everything.” 

“You make Guy send us lots of pictures, you hear?” Minnie said, kissing 
Rosemary back. 

“I will. I will,” Rosemary said. 

Minnie turned to Guy. Roman took Rosemary’s hand. “I won’t wish you 
luck,” he said, “because you won’t need it. You’re going to have a happy, happy 
life.” 

She kissed him. “Have a wonderful trip,” she said, “and come back safely.” 

“Perhaps,” he said, smiling. “But I may stay on in Dubrovnik, or Pescara or 
maybe Mallorca. We shall see, we shall see...” 

“Come back,” Rosemary said, and found herself meaning it. She kissed him 
again. 

A taxi came. Guy and the doorman stowed the suitcases beside the driver. 
Minnie shouldered and grunted her way in, sweating under the arms of her white 
dress. Roman folded himself in beside her. “Kennedy Airport,” he said; “the 
TWA Building.” 

There were more good-by’s and kisses through open windows, and then 
Rosemary and Guy stood waving at the taxi that sped away with hands ungloved 
and white-gloved waving from either side of it. 

Rosemary felt less happy than she had expected. 


That afternoon she looked for All Of Them Witches, to reread parts of it and 
perhaps find it foolish and laughable. The book was gone. It wasn’t atop the 
Kinsey Reports or anywhere else that she could see. She asked Guy and he told 
her he had put it in the garbage Thursday morning. 

“I’m sorry, honey,” he said, “but I just didn’t want you reading any more of 
that stuff and upsetting yourself.” 

She was surprised and annoyed. “Guy,” she said, “Hutch gave me that book. 



He left it to me.” 

“I didn’t think about that part of it,” Guy said. “I just didn’t want you 
upsetting yourself. I’m sorry.” 

“That’s a terrible thing to do.” 

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about Hutch.” 

“Even if he hadn’t given it to me, you don’t throw away another person’s 
books. If I want to read something, I want to read it.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

It bothered her all day long. And she had forgotten something that she meant 
to ask him; that bothered her too. 

She remembered it in the evening, while they were walking back from La 
Scala, a restaurant not far from the house. “How did you know Dr. Shand plays 
the recorder?” she said. 

He didn’t understand. 

“The other day,” she said, “when I read the book and we argued about it; you 
said that Dr. Shand just happened to play the recorder. How did you know?” 

“Oh,” Guy said. “He told me. Along time ago. And I said we’d heard a flute 
or something through the wall once or twice, and he said that was him. How did 
you think I knew?” 

“I didn’t think,” Rosemary said. “I just wondered, that’s all.” 


She couldn’t sleep. She lay awake on her back and frowned at the ceiling. The 
baby inside her was sleeping fine, but she couldn’t; she felt unsettled and 
worried, without knowing what she was worried about. 

Well the baby of course, and whether everything would go the way it should. 
She had cheated on her exercises lately. No more of that; solemn promise. 

It was really Monday already, the thirteenth. Fifteen more days. Two weeks. 
Probably all women felt edgy and unsettled two weeks before. And couldn’t 
sleep from being sick and tired of sleeping on their backs! The first thing she 
was going to do after it was all over was sleep twenty-four solid hours on her 
stomach, hugging a pillow, with her face snuggled deep down into it. 

She heard a sound in Minnie and Roman’s apartment, but it must have been 
from the floor above or the floor below. Sounds were masked and confused with 
the air conditioner going. 

They were in Paris already. Lucky them. Some day she and Guy would go, 
with their three lovely children. 



The baby woke up and began moving. 



CHAPTER 9 


SHE BOUGHT cotton balls and cotton swabs and talcum powder and baby 
lotion; engaged a diaper service and rearranged the baby’s clothing in the bureau 
drawers. She ordered the announcements—Guy would phone in the name and 
date later—and addressed and stamped a boxful of small ivory envelopes. She 
read a book called Summerhill that presented a seemingly irrefutable case for 
permissive child-rearing, and discussed it at Sardi’s East with Elise and Joan, 
their treat. 

She began to feel contractions; one one day, one the next, then none, then 

two. 

A postcard came from Paris, with a picture of the Arc de Triomphe and a 
neatly written message: Thinking of you both. Lovely weather, excellent food. 
The flight over was perfect. Love, Minnie. 

The baby dropped low inside her, ready to be born. 


Early in the afternoon of Friday, June 24th, at the stationery counter at Tiffany’s 
where she had gone for twenty-five more envelopes, Rosemary met Dominick 
Pozzo, who in the past had been Guy’s vocal coach. A short, swarthy, hump¬ 
backed man with a voice that was rasping and unpleasant, he seized Rosemary’s 
hand and congratulated her on her appearance and on Guy’s recent good fortune, 
for which he disavowed all credit. Rosemary told him of the play Guy was 
signing for and of the latest offer Warner Brothers had made. Dominick was 
delighted; now, he said, was when Guy could truly benefit from intensive 
coaching. He explained why, made Rosemary promise to have Guy call him, 



and, with final good wishes, turned toward the elevators. Rosemary caught his 
arm. “I never thanked you for the tickets to The Fantasticks,” she said. “I just 
loved it. It’s going to go on and on forever, like that Agatha Christie play in 
London.” 

“The Fantasticks ?” Dominick said. 

“You gave Guy a pair of tickets. Oh, long ago. In the fall. I went with a 
friend. Guy had seen it already.” 

“I never gave Guy tickets for The Fantasticks,” Dominick said. 

“You did. Last fall.” 

“No, my dear. I never gave anybody tickets to The Fantasticks; I never had 
any to give. You’re mistaken.” 

“I’m sure he said he got them from you,” Rosemary said. 

“Then he was mistaken,” Dominick said. “You’ll tell him to call me, yes?” 

“Yes. Yes, I will.” 

It was strange, Rosemary thought when she was waiting to cross Fifth 
Avenue. Guy had said that Dominick had given him the tickets, she was certain 
of it. She remembered wondering whether or not to send Dominick a thank-you 
note and deciding finally that it wasn’t necessary. She couldn’t be mistaken. 

Walk, the light said, and she crossed the avenue. 

But Guy couldn’t have been mistaken either. He didn’t get free tickets every 
day of the week; he must have remembered who gave them to him. Had he 
deliberately lied to her? Perhaps he hadn’t been given the tickets at all, but had 
found and kept them. No, there might have been a scene at the theater; he 
wouldn’t have exposed her to that. 

She walked west on Fifty-seventh Street, walked very slowly with the 
bigness of the baby hanging before her and her back aching from withstanding 
its forward-pulling weight. The day was hot and humid; ninety-two already and 
still rising. She walked very slowly. 

Had he wanted to get her out of the apartment that night for some reason? 
Had he gone down and bought the tickets himself? To be free to study the scene 
he was working on? But there wouldn’t have been any need for trickery if that 
had been the case; more than once in the old one-room apartment he had asked 
her to go out for a couple of hours and she had gone gladly. Most of the time, 
though, he wanted her to stay, to be his line-feeder, his audience. 

Was it a girl? One of his old flames for whom a couple of hours hadn’t been 
enough, and whose perfume he had been washing off in the shower when she got 
home? No, it was tannis root not perfume that the apartment had smelled of that 



night; she had had to wrap the charm in foil because of it. And Guy had been far 
too energetic and amorous to have spent the earlier part of the night with 
someone else. He had made unusually violent love to her, she remembered; later, 
while he slept, she had heard the flute and the chanting at Minnie and Roman’s. 

No, not the flute. Dr. Shand’s recorder. 

Was that how Guy knew about it? Had he been there that evening? At a 
sabbath... 

She stopped and looked in Henri Bendel’s windows, because she didn’t want 
to think any more about witches and covens and baby’s blood and Guy being 
over there. Why had she met that stupid Dominick? She should never have gone 
out today at all. It was too hot and sticky. 

There was a great raspberry crepe dress that looked like a Rudi Gernreich. 
After Tuesday, after she was her own real shape again, maybe she would go in 
and price it. And a pair of lemon-yellow hip-huggers and a raspberry blouse... 

Eventually, though, she had to go on. Go on walking, go on thinking, with 
the baby squirming inside her. 

The book (which Guy had thrown away ) had told of initiation ceremonies, of 
covens inducting novice members with vows and baptism, with anointing and 
the infliction of a “witch mark.” Was it possible (the shower to wash away the 
smell of a tannis anointing) that Guy had joined the coven? That he (no, he 
couldn’t be!) was one of them, with a secret mark of membership somewhere on 
his body? 

There had been a flesh-colored Band-Aid on his shoulder. It had been there 
in his dressing room in Philadelphia (“That damn pimple,” he had said when she 
had asked him) and it had been there a few months before (“Not the same one!” 
she had said). Was it still there now? 

She didn’t know. He didn’t sleep naked any more. He had in the past, 
especially in hot weather. But not any more, not for months and months. Now he 
wore pajamas every night. When had she last seen him naked? 

A car honked at her; she was crossing Sixth Avenue. “For God’s sake, lady,” 
a man behind her said. 

But why, why? He was Guy, he wasn’t a crazy old man with nothing better 
to do, with no other way to find purpose and self-esteem! He had a career, a 
busy, exciting, every-day-getting-better career! What did he need with wands 
and witch knives and censers and—and junk; with the Weeses and the Gilmores 
and Minnie and Roman? What could they give him that he couldn’t get 
elsewhere? 



She had known the answer before she asked herself the question. 
Formulating the question had been a way to put off facing the answer. 

The blindness of Donald Baumgart. 

If you believed. 

But she didn’t. She didn’t. 

Yet there Donald Baumgart was, blind, only a day or two after that Saturday. 
With Guy staying home to grab the phone every time it rang. Expecting the 
news. 

The blindness of Donald Baumgart. 

Out of which had come everything; the play, the reviews, the new play, the 
movie offer...Maybe Guy’s part in Greenwich Village, too, would have been 
Donald Baumgart’s if he hadn’t gone inexplicably blind a day or two after Guy 
had joined (maybe) a coven (maybe) of witches (maybe). 

There were spells to take an enemy’s sight or hearing, the book had said. All 
Of Them Witches. (Not Guy!) The united mental force of the whole coven, a 
concentrated battery of malevolent wills, could blind, deafen, paralyze, and 
ultimately kill the chosen victim. 

Paralyze and ultimately kill. 

“Hutch?” she asked aloud, standing motionless in front of Carnegie Hall. A 
girl looked up at her, clinging to her mother’s hand. 

He had been reading the book that night and had asked her to meet him the 
next morning. To tell her that Roman was Steven Marcato. And Guy knew of the 
appointment, and knowing, went out for—what, ice cream?—and rang Minnie 
and Roman’s bell. Was a hasty meeting called? The united mental force...But 
how had they known what Hutch would be telling her? She hadn’t known 
herself; only he had known. 

Suppose, though, that “tannis root” wasn’t “tannis root” at all. Hutch hadn’t 
heard of it, had he? Suppose it was—that other stuff he underlined in the book, 
Devil’s Fungus or whatever it was. He had told Roman he was going to look into 
it; wouldn’t that have been enough to make Roman wary of him? And right then 
and there Roman had taken one of Hutch ’s gloves, because the spells can’t be 
cast without one of the victim’s belongings! And then, when Guy told them 
about the appointment for the next morning, they took no chances and went to 
work. 

But no, Roman couldn’t have taken Hutch’s glove; she had shown him in 
and shown him out, walking along with him both times. 

Guy had taken the glove. He had rushed home with his make-up still on— 



which he never did—and had gone by himself to the closet. Roman must have 
called him, must have said, “This man Hutch is getting suspicious about ‘tannis 
root’ go home and get one of his belongings, just in case!” And Guy had obeyed. 
To keep Donald Baumgart blind. 

Waiting for the light at Fifty-fifth Street, she tucked her handbag and the 
envelopes under her arm, unhooked the chain at the back of her neck, drew the 
chain and the tannis-charm out of her dress and dropped them together down 
through the sewer grating. 

So much for “tannis root.” Devil’s Fungus. 

She was so frightened she wanted to cry. 

Because she knew what Guy was giving them in exchange for his success. 

The baby. To use in their rituals. 

He had never wanted a baby until after Donald Baumgart was blind. He 
didn’t like to feel it moving; he didn’t like to talk about it; he kept himself as 
distant and busy as if it weren’t his baby at all. 

Because he knew what they were planning to do to it as soon as he gave it to 
them. 


In the apartment, in the blessedly-cool shaded apartment, she tried to tell herself 
that she was mad. You’re going to have your baby in four days, Idiot Girl. Maybe 
even less. So you’re all tense and nutty and you’ve built up a whole lunatic 
persecution thing out of a bunch of completely unrelated coincidences. There are 
no real witches. There are no real spells. Hutch died a natural death, even if the 
doctors couldn’t give a name to it. Ditto for Donald Baumgart’s blindness. And 
how, pray tell, did Guy get one of Donald Baumgart’s belongings for the big 
spell-casting? See, Idiot Girl? It all falls apart when you pick at it. 

But why had he lied about the tickets? 

She undressed and took a long cool shower, turned clumsily around and 
around and then pushed her face up into the spray, trying to think sensibly, 
rationally. 

There must be another reason why he had lied. Maybe he’d spent the day 
hanging around Downey’s, yes, and had gotten the tickets from one of the gang 
there; wouldn’t he then have said Dominick had given them to him, so as not to 
let her know he’d been goofing off? 

Of course he would have. 

There,you see, Idiot Girl? 



But why hadn’t he shown himself naked in so many months and months? 

She was glad, anyway, that she had thrown away that damned charm. She 
should have done it long ago. She never should have taken it from Minnie in the 
first place. What a pleasure it was to be rid of its revolting smell! She dried 
herself and splashed on cologne, lots and lots of it. 

He hadn’t shown himself naked because he had a little rash of some kind and 
was embarrassed about it. Actors are vain, aren’t they? Elementary. 

But why had he thrown out the book? And spent so much time at Minnie and 
Roman’s? And waited for the news of Donald Baumgart’s blindness? And 
mshed home wearing his make-up just before Hutch missed his glove? 

She brushed her hair and tied it, and put on a brassiere and panties. She went 
into the kitchen and drank two glasses of cold milk. 

She didn’t know. 

She went into the nursery, moved the bathinette away from the wall, and 
thumbtacked a sheet of plastic over the wallpaper to protect it when the baby 
splashed in its bath. 

She didn’t know. 

She didn’t know if she was going mad or going sane, if witches had only the 
longing for power or power that was real and strong, if Guy was her loving 
husband or the treacherous enemy of the baby and herself. 

It was almost four. He would be home in an hour or so. 


She called Actors Equity and got Donald Baumgart’s telephone number. 

The phone was answered on the first ring with a quick impatient “Yeh?” 

“Is this Donald Baumgart?” 

“That’s right.” 

“This is Rosemary Woodhouse,” she said. “Guy Woodhouse’s wife.” 

“Oh?” 

“I wanted—” 

“My God,” he said, “you must be a happy little lady these days! I hear 
you’re living in baronial splendor in the ‘Bram,’ sipping vintage wine from 
crystal goblets, with scores of uniformed lackeys in attendance.” 

She said, “I wanted to know how you are; if there’s been any improvement.” 

He laughed. “Why bless your heart, Guy Woodhouse’s wife,” he said, “I’m 
fine! I’m splendid! There’s been enormous improvement! I only broke six 
glasses today, only fell down three flights of stairs, and only went tap-a-tap- 



tapping in front of two speeding fire engines! Every day in every way I’m 
getting better and better and better and better.” 

Rosemary said, “Guy and I are both very unhappy that he got his break 
because of your misfortune.” 

Donald Baumgart was silent for a moment, and then said, “Oh, what the hell. 
That’s the way it goes. Somebody’s up, somebody’s down. He would’ve made 
out all right anyway. To tell you the truth, after that second audition we did for 
Two Hours of Solid Crap, I was dead certain he was going to get the part. He 
was terrific.” 

“He thought you were going to get it,” Rosemary said. “And he was right.” 

“Briefly.” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t come along that day he came to visit you,” Rosemary 
said. “He asked me to, but I couldn’t.” 

“Visit me? You mean the day we met for drinks?” 

“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I meant.” 

“It’s good you didn’t come,” he said; “they don’t allow women, do they? No, 
after four they do, that’s right; and it was after four. That was awfully good- 
natured of Guy. Most people wouldn’t have had the—well, class, I guess. / 
wouldn’t have had it, I can tell you that.” 

“The loser buying the winner a drink,” Rosemary said. 

“And little did we know that a week later—less than a week, in fact—” 

“That’s right,” Rosemary said. “It was only a few days before you—” 

“Went blind. Yes. It was a Wednesday or Thursday, because I’d been to a 
matinee—Wednesday, I think—and the following Sunday was when it happened. 
Hey”—he laughed—“Guy didn’t put anything in that drink, did he?” 

“No, he didn’t,” Rosemary said. Her voice was shaking. “By the way,” she 
said, “he has something of yours, you know.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Don’t you know?” 

“No,” he said. 

“Didn’t you miss anything that day?” 

“No. Not that I remember.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“You don’t mean my tie, do you?” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“Well he’s got mine and I’ve got his. Does he want his back? He can have it; 
it doesn’t matter to me what tie I’m wearing, or if I’m wearing one at all.” 



“No, he doesn’t want it back,” Rosemary said. “I didn’t understand. I 
thought he had only borrowed it.” 

“No, it was a trade. It sounded as if you thought he had stolen it.” 

“I have to hang up now,” Rosemary said. “I just wanted to know if there was 
any improvement.” 

“No, there isn’t. It was nice of you to call.” 

She hung up. 

It was nine minutes after four. 

She put on her girdle and a dress and sandals. She took the emergency 
money Guy kept under his underwear—a not very thick fold of bills—and put it 
into her handbag, put in her address book too and the bottle of vitamin capsules. 
A contraction came and went, the second of the day. She took the suitcase that 
stood by the bedroom door and went down the hallway and out of the apartment. 

Halfway to the elevator, she turned and doubled back. 

She rode down in the service elevator with two delivery boys. 

On Fifty-fifth Street she got a taxi. 


Miss Lark, Dr. Sapirstein’s receptionist, glanced at the suitcase and said, smiling, 
“You aren’t in labor, are you?” 

“No,” Rosemary said, “but I have to see the doctor. It’s very important.” 

Miss Lark glanced at her watch. “He has to leave at five,” she said, “and 
there’s Mrs. Byron...”—she looked over at a woman who sat reading and then 
smiled at Rosemary—“but I’m sure he’ll see you. Sit down. I’ll let him know 
you’re here as soon as he’s free.” 

“Thank you,” Rosemary said. 

She put the suitcase by the nearest chair and sat down. The handbag’s white 
patent was damp in her hands. She opened it, took out a tissue, and wiped her 
palms and then her upper lip and temples. Her heart was racing. 

“How is it out there?” Miss Lark asked. 

“Terrible,” Rosemary said. “Ninety-four.” 

Miss Lark made a pained sound. 

A woman came out of Dr. Sapirstein’s office, a woman in her fifth or sixth 
month whom Rosemary had seen before. They nodded at each other. Miss Lark 
went in. 

“You’re due any day now, aren’t you?” the woman said, waiting by the desk. 

“Tuesday,” Rosemary said. 



“Good luck,” the woman said. “You’re smart to get it over with before July 
and August.” 

Miss Lark came out again. “Mrs. Byron,” she said, and to Rosemary, “He’ll 
see you right after.” 

“Thank you,” Rosemary said. 

Mrs. Byron went into Dr. Sapirstein’s office and closed the door. The woman 
by the desk conferred with Miss Lark about another appointment and then went 
out, saying good-by to Rosemary and wishing her luck again. 

Miss Lark wrote. Rosemary took up a copy of Time that lay at her elbow. Is 
God Dead? it asked in red letters on a black background. She found the index 
and turned to Show Business. There was a piece on Barbra Streisand. She tried 
to read it. 

“That smells nice,” Miss Lark said, sniffing in Rosemary’s direction. “What 
is it?” 

“It’s called ‘Detchema,’” Rosemary said. 

“It’s a big improvement over your regular, if you don’t mind my saying.” 

“That wasn’t a cologne,” Rosemary said. “It was a good luck charm. I threw 
it away.” 

“Good,” Miss Lark said. “Maybe the doctor will follow your example.” 

Rosemary, after a moment, said, “Dr. Sapirstein?” 

Miss Lark said, “Mm-hmm. He has the after-shave. But it isn’t, is it? Then 
he has a good luck charm. Only he isn’t superstitious. I don’t think he is. 
Anyway, he has the same smell once in a while, whatever it is, and when he does, 
I can’t come within five feet of him. Much stronger than yours was. Haven’t you 
ever noticed?” 

“No,” Rosemary said. 

“I guess you haven’t been here on the right days,” Miss Lark said. “Or 
maybe you thought it was your own you were smelling. What is it, a chemical 
thing?” 

Rosemary stood up and put down Time and picked up her suitcase. “My 
husband is outside; I have to tell him something,” she said. “I’ll be back in a 
minute.” 

“You can leave your suitcase,” Miss Lark said. 

Rosemary took it with her though. 



CHAPTER 10 


SHE WALKED up Park to Eighty-first Street, where she found a glass-walled 
phone booth. She called Dr. Hill. It was very hot in the booth. 

A service answered. Rosemary gave her name and the phone number. 
“Please ask him to call me back right away,” she said. “It’s an emergency and 
I’m in a phone booth.” 

“All right,” the woman said and clicked to silence. 

Rosemary hung up and then lifted the receiver again but kept a hidden finger 
on the hook. She held the receiver to her ear as if listening, so that no one should 
come along and ask her to give up the phone. The baby kicked and twisted in 
her. She was sweating. Quickly, please, Dr. Hill. Call me. Rescue me. 

All of them. All of them. They were all in it together. Guy, Dr. Sapirstein, 
Minnie, and Roman. All of them witches. All Of Them Witches. Using her to 
produce a baby for them, so that they could take it and— Don’t you worry, Andy- 
or-Jenny, I’ll kill them before I let them touch you! 

The phone rang. She jumped her finger from the hook. “Yes?” 

“Is this Mrs. Woodhouse?” It was the service again. 

“Where’s Dr. Hill?” she said. 

“Did I get the name right?” the woman asked. “Is it 'Rosemary 
Woodhouse’?” 

“Yes!” 

“And you’re Dr. Hill’s patient?” 

She explained about the one visit back in the fall. “Please, please,” she said, 
“he has to speak to me! It’s important! It’s— please. Please tell him to call me.” 

“All right,” the woman said. 



Holding the hook again, Rosemary wiped her forehead with the back of her 
hand. Please, Dr. Hill. She cracked open the door for air and then pushed it 
closed again as a woman came near and waited. “Oh, I didn’t know that,” 
Rosemary said to the mouthpiece, her finger on the hook. “Really? What else did 
he say?” Sweat trickled down her back and from under her arms. The baby 
turned and rolled. 

It had been a mistake to use a phone so near Dr. Sapirstein’s office. She 
should have gone to Madison or Lexington. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “Did 
he say anything else?” At this very moment he might be out of the door and 
looking for her, and wouldn’t the nearest phone booth be the first place he’d 
look? She should have gotten right into a taxi, gotten far away. She put her back 
as much as she could in the direction he would come from if he came. The 
woman outside was walking away, thank God. 

And now, too, Guy would be coming home. He would see the suitcase gone 
and call Dr. Sapirstein, thinking she was in the hospital. Soon the two of them 
would be looking for her. And all the others too; the Weeses, the— 

“Yes?”—stopping the ring in its middle. 

“Mrs. Woodhouse?” 

It was Dr. Hill, Dr. Savior-Rescuer-Kildare-Wonderful-Hill. “Thank you,” 
she said. “Thank you for calling me.” 

“I thought you were in California,” he said. 

“No,” she said. “I went to another doctor, one some friends sent me to, and 
he isn’t good, Dr. Hill; he’s been lying to me and giving me unusual kinds of— 
drinks and capsules. The baby is due on Tuesday—remember, you told me, June 
twenty-eighth?—and I want you to deliver it. I’ll pay you whatever you want, 
the same as if I’d been coming to you all along.” 

“Mrs. Woodhouse—” 

“Please, let me talk to you,” she said, hearing refusal. “Let me come and 
explain what’s been going on. I can’t stay too long where I am right now. My 
husband and this doctor and the people who sent me to him, they’ve all been 
involved in—well, in a plot; I know that sounds crazy, Doctor, and you’re 
probably thinking, ‘My God, this poor girl has completely flipped,’ but I haven’t 
flipped, Doctor, I swear by all the saints I haven’t. Now and then there are plots 
against people, aren’t there?” 

“Yes, I suppose there are,” he said. 

“There’s one against me and my baby,” she said, “and if you’ll let me come 
talk to you I’ll tell you about it. And I’m not going to ask you to do anything 



unusual or wrong or anything; all I want you to do is get me into a hospital and 
deliver my baby for me.” 

He said, “Come to my office tomorrow after—” 

“Now,” she said. “Now. Right now. They’re going to be looking for me.” 
“Mrs. Woodhouse,” he said, “I’m not at my office now, I’m home. I’ve been 
up since yesterday morning and—” 

“I beg you,” she said. “I beg you.” 

He was silent. 

She said, “I’ll come there and explain to you. I can’t stay here.” 

“My office at eight o’clock,” he said. “Will that be all right?” 

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Thank you. Dr. Hill?” 

“Yes?” 

“My husband may call you and ask if I called.” 

“I’m not going to speak to anyone,” he said. “I’m going to take a nap.” 
“Would you tell your service? Not to say that I called? Doctor?” 

“All right, I will,” he said. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

“Eight o’clock.” 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

A man with his back to the booth turned as she came out; he wasn’t Dr. 
Sapirstein though, he was somebody else. 


She walked to Lexington Avenue and uptown to Eighty-sixth Street, where she 
went into the theater there, used the ladies’ room, and then sat numbly in the safe 
cool darkness facing a loud color movie. After a while she got up and went with 
her suitcase to a phone booth, where she placed a person-to-person collect call to 
her brother Brian. There was no answer. She went back with her suitcase and sat 
in a different seat. The baby was quiet, sleeping. The movie changed to 
something with Keenan Wynn. 

At twenty of eight she left the theater and took a taxi to Dr. Hill’s office on 
West Seventy-second Street. It would be safe to go in, she thought; they would 
be watching Joan’s place and Hugh and Elise’s, but not Dr. Hill’s office at eight 
o’clock, not if his service had said she hadn’t called. To be sure, though, she 
asked the driver to wait and watch until she was inside the door. 

Nobody stopped her. Dr. Hill opened the door himself, more pleasantly than 
she had expected after his reluctance on the telephone. He had grown a 



moustache, blond and hardly noticeable, but he still looked like Dr. Kildare. He 
was wearing a blue-and-yellow-plaid sport shirt. 

They went into his consulting room, which was a quarter the size of Dr. 
Sapirstein’s, and there Rosemary told him her story. She sat with her hands on 
the chair arms and her ankles crossed and spoke quietly and calmly, knowing 
that any suggestion of hysteria would make him disbelieve her and think her 
mad. She told him about Adrian Marcato and Minnie and Roman; about the 
months of pain she had suffered and the herbal drinks and the little white cakes; 
about Hutch and All Of Them Witches and the Fantasticks tickets and black 
candles and Donald Baumgart’s necktie. She tried to keep everything coherent 
and in sequence but she couldn’t. She got it all out without getting hysterical 
though; Dr. Shand’s recorder and Guy throwing away the book and Miss Lark’s 
final unwitting revelation. 

“Maybe the coma and the blindness were only coincidences,” she said, “or 
maybe they do have some kind of ESP way of hurting people. But that’s not 
important. The important thing is that they want the baby. I’m sure they do.” 

“It certainly seems that way,” Dr. Hill said, “especially in light of the interest 
they’ve taken in it right from the beginning.” 

Rosemary shut her eyes and could have cried. He believed her. He didn’t 
think she was mad. She opened her eyes and looked at him, staying calm and 
composed. He was writing. Did all his patients love him? Her palms were wet; 
she slid them from the chair arms and pressed them against her dress. 

“The doctor’s name is Shand, you say,” Dr. Hill said. 

“No, Dr. Shand is just one of the group,” Rosemary said. “One of the coven. 
The doctor is Dr. Sapirstein.” 

“Abraham Sapirstein?” 

“Yes,” Rosemary said uneasily. “Do you know him?” 

“I’ve met him once or twice,” Dr. Hill said, writing more. 

“Looking at him,” Rosemary said, “or even talking to him, you would never 
think he—” 

“Never in a million years,” Dr. Hill said, putting down his pen, “which is 
why we’re told not to judge books by their covers. Would you like to go into 
Mount Sinai right now, this evening?” 

Rosemary smiled. “I would love to,” she said. “Is it possible?” 

“It’ll take some wire-pulling and arguing,” Dr. Hill said. He rose and went to 
the open door of his examining room. “I want you to lie down and get some 
rest,” he said, reaching into the darkened room behind him. It blinked into ice- 



blue fluorescent light. “I’ll see what I can do and then I’ll check you over.” 

Rosemary hefted herself up and went with her handbag into the examining 
room. “Anything they’ve got,” she said. “Even a broom closet.” 

“I’m sure we can do better than that,” Dr. Hill said. He came in after her and 
turned on an air conditioner in the room’s blue-curtained window. It was a noisy 
one. 

“Shall I undress?” Rosemary asked. 

“No, not yet,” Dr. Hill said. “This is going to take a good half-hour of high- 
powered telephoning. Just lie down and rest.” He went out and closed the door. 

Rosemary went to the day bed at the far end of the room and sat down 
heavily on its blue-covered softness. She put her handbag on a chair. 

God bless Dr. Hill. 

She would make a sampler to that effect some day. 

She shook off her sandals and lay back gratefully. The air conditioner sent a 
small stream of coolness to her; the baby turned over slowly and lazily, as if 
feeling it. 

Everything’s okay now, Andy-or-Jenny. We’re going to be in a nice clean bed 
at Mount Sinai Hospital, with no visitors and — 

Money. She sat up, opened her handbag, and found Guy’s money that she 
had taken. There was a hundred and eighty dollars. Plus sixteen-and-change of 
her own. It would be enough, certainly, for any advance payments that had to be 
made, and if more were needed Brian would wire it or Hugh and Elise would 
lend it to her. Or Joan. Or Grace Cardiff. She had plenty of people she could turn 
to. 

She took the capsules out, put the money back in, and closed the handbag; 
and then she lay back again on the day bed, with the handbag and the bottle of 
capsules on the chair beside her. She would give the capsules to Dr. Hill; he 
would analyze them and make sure there was nothing harmful in them. There 
couldn’t be. They would want the baby to be healthy, wouldn’t they, for their 
insane rituals? 

She shivered. 

The—monsters. 

And Guy. 

Unspeakable, unspeakable. 

Her middle hardened in a straining contraction, the strongest one yet. She 
breathed shallowly until it ended. 

Making three that day. 



She would tell Dr. Hill. 


She was living with Brian and Dodie in a large contemporary house in Los 
Angeles, and Andy had just started talking (though only four months old) when 
Dr. Hill looked in and she was in his examining room again, lying on the day bed 
in the coolness of the air conditioner. She shielded her eyes with her hand and 
smiled at him. “I’ve been sleeping,” she said. 

He pushed the door all the way open and withdrew. Dr. Sapirstein and Guy 
came in. 

Rosemary sat up, lowering her hand from her eyes. 

They came and stood close to her. Guy’s face was stony and blank. He 
looked at the walls, only at the walls, not at her. Dr. Sapirstein said, “Come with 
us quietly, Rosemary. Don’t argue or make a scene, because if you say anything 
more about witches or witchcraft we’re going to be forced to take you to a 
mental hospital. The facilities there for delivering the baby will be less than the 
best. You don’t want that, do you? So put your shoes on.” 

“We’re just going to take you home,” Guy said, finally looking at her. “No 
one’s going to hurt you.” 

“Or the baby,” Dr. Sapirstein said. “Put your shoes on.” He picked up the 
bottle of capsules, looked at it, and put it in his pocket. 

She put her sandals on and he gave her her handbag. 

They went out, Dr. Sapirstein holding her arm, Guy touching her other 
elbow. 

Dr. Hill had her suitcase. He gave it to Guy. 

“She’s fine now,” Dr. Sapirstein said. “We’re going to go home and rest.” 

Dr. Hill smiled at her. “That’s all it takes, nine times out of ten,” he said. 

She looked at him and said nothing. 

“Thank you for your trouble, Doctor,” Dr. Sapirstein said, and Guy said, “It’s 
a shame you had to come in here and—” 

“I’m glad I could be of help, sir,” Dr. Hill said to Dr. Sapirstein, opening the 
front door. 


They had a car. Mr. Gilmore was driving it. Rosemary sat between Guy and Dr. 
Sapirstein in back. 



Nobody spoke. 

They drove to the Bramford. 


The elevator man smiled at her as they crossed the lobby toward him. Diego. 
Smiled because he liked her, favored her over some of the other tenants. 

The smile, reminding her of her individuality, wakened something in her, 
revived something. 

She snicked open her handbag at her side, worked a finger through her key 
ring, and, near the elevator door, turned the handbag all the way over, spilling 
out everything except the keys. Rolling lipstick, coins, Guy’s tens and twenties 
fluttering, everything. She looked down stupidly. 

They picked things up, Guy and Dr. Sapirstein, while she stood mute, 
pregnant-helpless. Diego came out of the elevator, making tongue-teeth sounds 
of concern. He bent and helped. She backed in to get out of the way and, 
watching them, toed the big round floor button. The rolling door rolled. She 
pulled closed the inner gate. 

Diego grabbed for the door but saved his fingers; smacked on the outside of 
it. “Hey, Mrs. Woodhouse!” 

Sorry, Diego. 

She pushed the handle and the car lurched upward. 

She would call Brian. Or Joan or Elise or Grace Cardiff. Someone. 

We’re not through yet, Andy! 

She stopped the car at nine, then at six, then halfway past seven, and then 
close enough to seven to open the gate and the door and step four inches down. 

She walked through the turns of hallway as quickly as she could. A 
contraction came but she marched right through it, paying no heed. 

The service elevator’s indicator blinked from four to five and she knew it 
was Guy and Dr. Sapirstein coming up to intercept her. 

So of course the key wouldn’t go into the lock. 

But finally did, and she was inside, slamming the door as the elevator door 
opened, hooking in the chain as Guy’s key went into the lock. She turned the 
bolt and the key turned it right back again. The door opened and pushed in 
against the chain. 

“Open up, Ro,” Guy said. 

“Go to hell,” she said. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, honey.” 



“You promised them the baby. Get away.” 

“I didn’t promise them anything,” he said. “What are you talking about? 
Promised who?” 

“Rosemary,” Dr. Sapirstein said. 

“You too. Get away.” 

“You seem to have imagined some sort of conspiracy against you.” 

“Get away,” she said, and pushed the door shut and bolted it. 

It stayed bolted. 

She backed away, watching it, and then went into the bedroom. 

It was nine-thirty. 

She wasn’t sure of Brian’s number and her address book was in the lobby or 
Guy’s pocket, so the operator had to get Omaha Information. When the call was 
finally put through there was still no answer. “Do you want me to try again in 
twenty minutes?” the operator asked. 

“Yes, please,” Rosemary said; “in five minutes.” 

“I can’t try again in five minutes,” the operator said, “but I’ll try in twenty 
minutes if you want me to.” 

“Yes, please,” Rosemary said and hung up. 

She called Joan, and Joan was out too. 

Elise and Hugh’s number was—she didn’t know. Information took forever to 
answer but, having answered, supplied it quickly. She dialed it and got an 
answering service. They were away for the weekend. “Are they anywhere where 
I can reach them? This is an emergency.” 

“Is this Mr. Dunstan’s secretary?” 

“No, I’m a close friend. It’s very important that I speak to them.” 

“They’re on Fire Island,” the woman said. “I can give you a number.” 

“Please.” 

She memorized it, hung up, and was about to dial it when she heard whispers 
outside the doorway and footsteps on the vinyl floor. She stood up. 

Guy and Mr. Fountain came into the room—“Honey, we’re not going to hurt 
you,” Guy said—and behind them Dr. Sapirstein with a loaded hypodermic, the 
needle up and dripping, his thumb at the plunger. And Dr. Shand and Mrs. 
Fountain and Mrs. Gilmore. “We’re your friends,” Mrs. Gilmore said, and Mrs. 
Fountain said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Rosemary; honest and truly there 
isn’t.” 

“This is nothing but a mild sedative,” Dr. Sapirstein said. “To calm you 
down so that you can get a good night’s sleep.” 



She was between the bed and the wall, and too gross to climb over the bed 
and evade them. 

They came toward her—“You know I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, Ro”— 
and she picked up the phone and struck with the receiver at Guy’s head. He 
caught her wrist and Mr. Fountain caught her other arm and the phone fell as he 
pulled her around with startling strength. “Help me, somebod —” she screamed, 
and a handkerchief or something was jammed into her mouth and held there by a 
small strong hand. 

They dragged her away from the bed so Dr. Sapirstein could come in front of 
her with the hypodermic and a dab of cotton, and a contraction far more grueling 
than any of the others clamped her middle and clenched shut her eyes. She held 
her breath, then sucked air in through her nostrils in quick little pulls. A hand felt 
her belly, deft all-over finger-tipping, and Dr. Sapirstein said, “Wait a minute, 
wait a minute now; we happen to be in labor here.” 

Silence; and someone outside the room whispered the news: “She’s in 
labor!” 

She opened her eyes and stared at Dr. Sapirstein, dragging air through her 
nostrils, her middle relaxing. He nodded to her, and suddenly took her arm that 
Mr. Fountain was holding, touched it with cotton, and stabbed it with the needle. 

She took the injection without trying to move, too afraid, too stunned. 

He withdrew the needle and rubbed the spot with his thumb and then with 
the cotton. 

The women, she saw, were turning down the bed. 

Here? 

Here? 

It was supposed to be Doctors Hospital! Doctors Hospital, with equipment 
and nurses and everything clean and sterile! 

They held her while she struggled, Guy saying in her ear, “You’ll be all 
right, honey, I swear to God you will! I swear to God you’re going to be 
perfectly all right! Don’t go on fighting like this, Ro, please don’t! I give you my 
absolute word of honor you’re going to be perfectly all right!” 

And then there was another contraction. 

And then she was on the bed, with Dr. Sapirstein giving her another 
injection. 

And Mrs. Gilmore wiped her forehead. 

And the phone rang. 

And Guy said, “No, just cancel it, operator.” 



And there was another contraction, faint and disconnected from her floating 
eggshell head. 

All the exercises had been for nothing. All wasted energy. This wasn’t 
natural childbirth at all; she wasn’t helping, she wasn’t seeing. 

Oh, Andy, Andy-or-Jenny! I’m sorry, my little darling! Forgive me! 



PART 3 



CHAPTER 1 


LIGHT. 

The ceiling. 

And pain between her legs. 

And Guy. Sitting beside the bed, watching her with an anxious, uncertain 
smile. 

“Hi,” he said. 

“Hi,” she said back. 

The pain was terrible. 

And then she remembered. It was over. It was over. The baby was born. 

“Is it all right?” she asked. 

“Yes, fine,” he said. 

“What is it?” 

“A boy.” 

“Really? A boy?” 

He nodded. 

“And it’s all right?” 

“Yes.” 

She let her eyes close, then managed to open them again. 

“Did you call Tiffany’s?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said. 

She let her eyes close and slept. 


Later she remembered more. Laura-Louise was sitting by the bed reading the 



Reader’s Digest with a magnifying glass. 

“Where is it?” she asked. 

Laura-Louise jumped. “My goodness, dear,” she said, the magnifying glass 
at her bosom showing red ropes interwoven, “what a start you gave me, waking 
up so suddenly! My goodness!” She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. 

“The baby; where is it?” she asked. 

“You just wait here a minute,” Laura-Louise said, getting up with the Digest 
closed on a finger. “I’ll get Guy and Doctor Abe. They’re right in the kitchen.” 

“Where’s the baby?” she asked, but Laura-Louise went out the door without 
answering. 

She tried to get up but fell back, her arms boneless. And there was pain 
between her legs like a bundle of knife points. She lay and waited, remembering, 
remembering. 

It was night. Five after nine, the clock said. 

They came in, Guy and Dr. Sapirstein, looking grave and resolute. 

“Where’s the baby?” she asked them. 

Guy came around to the side of the bed and crouched down and took her 
hand. “Honey,” he said. 

“Where is it?” 

“Honey...” He tried to say more and couldn’t. He looked across the bed for 
help. 

Dr. Sapirstein stood looking down at her. A shred of coconut was caught in 
his moustache. “There were complications, Rosemary,” he said, “but nothing 
that will affect future births.” 

“It’s—” 

“Dead,” he said. 

She stared at him. 

He nodded. 

She turned to Guy. 

He nodded too. 

“It was in the wrong position,” Dr. Sapirstein said. “In the hospital I might 
have been able to do something, but there simply wasn’t time to get you there. 
Trying anything here would have been—too dangerous for you.” 

Guy said, “We can have others, honey, and we will, just as soon as you’re 
better. I promise you.” 

Dr. Sapirstein said, “Absolutely. You can start on another in a very few 
months and the odds are thousands to one against anything similar happening. It 



was a tragic one-in-ten-thousand mishap; the baby itself was perfectly healthy 
and normal.” 

Guy squeezed her hand and smiled encouragingly at her. “As soon as you’re 
better,” he said. 

She looked at them, at Guy, at Dr. Sapirstein with the shred of coconut in his 
moustache. “You’re lying,” she said. “I don’t believe you. You’re both lying.” 

“Honey,” Guy said. 

“It didn’t die,” she said. “You took it. You’re lying. You’re witches. You’re 
lying. You’re lying! You’re lying! You’re lying! You’re lying! You’re lying!” 

Guy held her shoulders to the bed and Dr. Sapirstein gave her an injection. 


She ate soup and triangles of buttered white bread. Guy sat on the side of the 
bed, nibbling at one of the triangles. “You were crazy,” he said. “You were really 
ka-pow out of your mind. It happens sometimes in the last couple of weeks. 
That’s what Abe says. He has a name for it. Prepartum I-don’t-know, some kind 
of hysteria. You had it, honey, and with a vengeance.” 

She said nothing. She took a spoonful of soup. 

“Listen,” he said, “I know where you got the idea that Minnie and Roman 
were witches, but what made you think Abe and I had joined the party?” 

She said nothing. 

“That’s stupid of me, though,” he said. “I guess prepartum whatever-it-is 
doesn’t need reasons.” He took another of the triangles and bit off first one point 
and then another. 

She said, “Why did you trade ties with Donald Baumgart?” 

“Why did I—well what has that got to do with anything?” 

“You needed one of his personal belongings,” she said, “so they could cast 
the spell and make him blind.” 

He stared at her. “Honey,” he said, “for God’s sake what are you talking 
about?” 

“You know.” 

“Holy mackerel,” he said. “I traded ties with him because I liked his and 
didn’t like mine, and he liked mine and didn’t like his. I didn’t tell you about it 
because afterwards it seemed like a slightly faggy thing to have done and I was a 
little embarrassed about it.” 

“Where did you get the tickets for The Fantasticks?” she asked him. 

“What?” 



“You said you got them from Dominick,” she said; “you didn’t.” 

“Boy oh boy,” he said. “And that makes me a witch? I got them from a girl 
named Norma-something that I met at an audition and had a couple of drinks 
with. What did Abe do? Tie his shoelaces the wrong way?” 

“He uses tannis root,” she said. “It’s a witch thing. His receptionist told me 
she smelled it on him.” 

“Maybe Minnie gave him a good luck charm, just the way she gave you one. 
You mean only witches use it? That doesn’t sound very likely.” 

Rosemary was silent. 

“Let’s face it, darling,” Guy said, “you had the prepartum crazies. And now 
you’re going to rest and get over them.” He leaned closer to her and took her 
hand. “I know this has been the worst thing that ever happened to you,” he said, 
“but from now on everything’s going to be roses. Warners is within an inch of 
where we want them, and suddenly Universal is interested too. I’m going to get 
some more good reviews and then we’re going to blow this town and be in the 
beautiful hills of Beverly, with the pool and the spice garden and the whole 
schmeer. And the kids too, Ro. Scout’s honor. You heard what Abe said.” He 
kissed her hand. “Got to run now and get famous.” 

He got up and started for the door. 

“Let me see your shoulder,” she said. 

He stopped and turned. 

“Let me see your shoulder,” she said. 

“Are you kidding?” 

“No,” she said. “Let me see it. Your left shoulder.” 

He looked at her and said, “All right, whatever you say, honey.” 

He undid the collar of his shirt, a short-sleeved blue knit, and peeled the 
bottom of it up and over his head. He had a white T shirt on underneath. “I 
generally prefer doing this to music,” he said, and took off the T shirt too. He 
went close to the bed and, leaning, showed Rosemary his left shoulder. It was 
unmarked. There was only the faint scar of a boil or pimple. He showed her his 
other shoulder and his chest and his back. 

“This is as far as I go without a blue light,” he said. 

“All right,” she said. 

He grinned. “The question now,” he said, “is do I put my shirt back on or do 
I go out and give Laura-Louise the thrill of a lifetime.” 



Her breasts filled with milk and it was necessary to relieve them, so Dr. 
Sapirstein showed her how to use a rubber-bulbed breast pump, like a glass auto 
horn; and several times a day Laura-Louise or Helen Wees or whoever was there 
brought it in to her with a Pyrex measuring cup. She drew from each breast an 
ounce or two of thin faintly-green fluid that smelled ever so slightly of tannis 
root—in a process that was a final irrefutable demonstration of the baby’s 
absence. When the cup and the pump had been carried from the room she would 
lie against her pillows broken and lonely beyond tears. 

Joan and Elise and Tiger came to see her, and she spoke with Brian for 
twenty minutes on the phone. Flowers came —roses and carnations and a yellow 
azalea plant—from Allan, and Mike and Pedro, and Lou and Claudia. Guy 
bought a new remote-control television set and put it at the foot of the bed. She 
watched and ate and took pills that were given to her. 

A letter of sympathy came from Minnie and Roman, a page from each of 
them. They were in Dubrovnik. 

The stitches gradually stopped hurting. 


One morning, when two or three weeks had gone by, she thought she heard a 
baby crying. She rayed off the television and listened. There was a frail faraway 
wailing. Or was there? She slipped out of bed and turned off the air conditioner. 

Florence Gilmore came in with the pump and the cup. 

“Do you hear a baby crying?” Rosemary asked her. 

Both of them listened. 

Yes, there it was. A baby crying. 

“No, dear, I don’t,” Florence said. “Get back into bed now; you know you’re 
not supposed to be walking around. Did you turn off the air conditioner? You 
mustn’t do that; it’s a terrible day. People are actually dying, it’s so hot.” 

She heard it again that afternoon, and mysteriously her breasts began to 
leak... 

“Some new people moved in,” Guy said out of nowhere that evening. “Up 
on eight.” 

“And they have a baby,” she said. 

“Yes. How did you know?” 

She looked at him for a moment. “I heard it crying,” she said. 

She heard it the next day. And the next. 



She stopped watching television and held a book in front of her, pretending 
to read but only listening, listening... 

It wasn’t up on eight; it was right there on seven. 

And more often than not, the pump and the cup were brought to her a few 
minutes after the crying began; and the crying stopped a few minutes after her 
milk was taken away. 

“What do you do with it?” she asked Laura-Louise one morning, giving her 
back the pump and the cup and six ounces of milk. 

“Why, throw it away, of course,” Laura-Louise said, and went out. 

That afternoon, as she gave Laura-Louise the cup, she said, “Wait a minute,” 
and started to put a used coffee spoon into it. 

Laura-Louise jerked the cup away. “Don’t do that,” she said, and caught the 
spoon in a finger of the hand holding the pump. 

“What difference does it make?” Rosemary asked. 

“It’s just messy, that’s all,” Laura-Louise said. 



CHAPTER 2 


IT WAS ALIVE. 

It was in Minnie and Roman’s apartment. 

They were keeping it there, feeding it her milk and please God taking care of 
it, because, as well as she remembered from Hutch’s book, August first was one 
of their special days, Lammas or Leamas, with special maniacal rituals. Or 
maybe they were keeping it until Minnie and Roman came back from Europe. 
For their share. 

But it was still alive. 

She stopped taking the pills they gave her. She tucked them down into the 
fold between her thumb and her palm and faked the swallowing, and later 
pushed the pills as far as she could between the mattress and the box spring 
beneath it. 

She felt stronger and more wide-awake. 

Hang on, Andy! I’m coming! 

She had learned her lesson with Dr. Hill. This time she would turn to no one, 
would expect no one to believe her and be her savior. Not the police, not Joan or 
the Dunstans or Grace Cardiff, not even Brian. Guy was too good an actor, Dr. 
Sapirstein too famous a doctor; between the two of them they’d have even him, 
even Brian, thinking she had some kind of post-losing-the-baby madness. This 
time she would do it alone, would go in there and get him herself, with her 
longest sharpest kitchen knife to fend away those maniacs. 

And she was one up on them. Because she knew—and they didn’t know she 
knew—that there was a secret way from the one apartment to the other. The door 
had been chained that night—she knew that as she knew the hand she was 



looking at was a hand, not a bird or a battleship—and still they had all come 
pouring in. So there had to be another way. 

Which could only be the linen closet, barricaded by dead Mrs. Gardenia, 
who surely had died of the same witchery that had frozen and killed poor Hutch. 
The closet had been put there to break the one big apartment into two smaller 
ones, and if Mrs. Gardenia had belonged to the coven—she’d given Minnie her 
herbs; hadn’t Terry said so?—then what was more logical than to open the back 
of the closet in some way and go to and fro with so many steps saved and the 
Bruhns and Dubin-and-DeVore never knowing of the traffic? 

It was the linen closet. 

In a dream long ago she had been carried through it. That had been no 
dream; it had been a sign from heaven, a divine message to be stored away and 
remembered now for assurance in a time of trial. 

Oh Father in heaven, forgive me for doubting! Forgive me for turning from 
you, Merciful Father, and help me, help me in my hour of need! Oh Jesus, dear 
Jesus, help me save my innocent baby! 


The pills, of course, were the answer. She squirmed her arm in under the 
mattress and caught them out one by one. Eight of them, all alike; small white 
tablets scored across the middle for breaking in half. Whatever they were, three a 
day had kept her limp and docile; eight at once, surely, would send Laura-Louise 
or Helen Wees into sound sleep. She brushed the pills clean, folded them up in a 
piece of magazine cover, and tucked them away at the bottom of her box of 
tissues. 

She pretended still to be limp and docile; ate her meals and looked at 
magazines and pumped out her milk. 

It was Leah Fountain who was there when everything was right. She came in 
after Helen Wees had gone out with the milk and said, “Hi, Rosemary! I’ve been 
letting the other girls have the fun of visiting with you, but now Fm going to 
take a turn. You’re in a regular movie theater here! Is there anything good on 
tonight?” 

Nobody else was in the apartment. Guy had gone to meet Allan and have 
some contracts explained to him. 

They watched a Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers picture, and during a break 
Leah went into the kitchen and brought back two cups of coffee. “I’m a little 
hungry too,” Rosemary said when Leah had put the cups on the night table. 



“Would you mind very much fixing me a cheese sandwich?” 

“Of course I wouldn’t mind, dear,” Leah said. “How do you like it, with 
lettuce and mayonnaise?” 

She went out again and Rosemary got the fold of magazine cover from her 
tissue box. There were eleven pills in it now. She slid them all into Leah’s cup 
and stirred the coffee with her own spoon, which she then wiped off with a 
tissue. She picked up her own coffee, but it shook so much that she had to put it 
down again. 

She was sitting and sipping calmly though when Leah came in with the 
sandwich. “Thanks, Leah,” she said, “that looks great. The coffee’s a little bitter; 
I guess it was sitting too long.” 

“Shall I make fresh?” Leah asked. 

“No, it’s not that bad,” Rosemary said. 

Leah sat down beside the bed, took her cup, and stirred it and tasted. “Mm,” 
she said and wrinkled her nose; she nodded, agreeing with Rosemary. 

“It’s drinkable though,” Rosemary said. 

They watched the movie, and after two more breaks Leah’s head drooped 
and snapped up sharply. She put down her cup and saucer, the cup two-thirds 
empty. Rosemary ate the last piece of her sandwich and watched Fred Astaire 
and two other people dancing on turntables in a glossy unreal fun house. 

During the next section of the movie Leah fell asleep. 

“Leah?” Rosemary said. 

The elderly woman sat snoring, her chin to her chest, her hands palm- 
upward in her lap. Her lavender-tinted hair, a wig, had slipped forward; sparse 
white hairs stuck out at the back of her neck. 

Rosemary got out of bed, slid her feet into slippers, and put on the blue-and- 
white quilted housecoat she had bought for the hospital. Going quietly out of the 
bedroom, she closed the door almost all the way and went to the front door of 
the apartment and quietly chained and bolted it. 

She then went into the kitchen and, from her knife rack, took the longest 
sharpest knife—a nearly new carving knife with a curved and pointed steel blade 
and a heavy bone handle with a brass butt. Holding it point-down at her side, she 
left the kitchen and went down the hallway to the linen-closet door. 

As soon as she opened it she knew she was right. The shelves looked neat 
and orderly enough, but the contents of two of them had been interchanged; the 
bath towels and hand towels were where the winter blankets ought to have been 
and vice versa. 



She laid the knife on the bathroom threshold and took everything out of the 
closet except what was on the fixed top shelf. She put towels and linens on the 
floor, and large and small boxes, and then lifted out the four gingham-covered 
shelves she had decorated and placed there a thousand thousand years ago. 

The back of the closet, below the top shelf, was a single large white-painted 
panel framed with narrow white molding. Standing close and leaning aside for 
better light, Rosemary saw that where the panel and the molding met, the paint 
was broken in a continuous line. She pressed at one side of the panel and then at 
the other; pressed harder, and it swung inward on scraping hinges. Within was 
darkness; another closet, with a wire hanger glinting on the floor and one bright 
spot of light, a keyhole. Pushing the panel all the way open, Rosemary stepped 
into the second closet and ducked down. Through the keyhole she saw, at a 
distance of about twenty feet, a small curio cabinet that stood at a jog in the 
hallway of Minnie and Roman’s apartment. 

She tried the door. It opened. 

She closed it and backed out through her own closet and got the knife; then 
went in and through again, looked out again through the keyhole, and opened the 
door just the least bit. 

Then opened it wide, holding the knife shoulder-high, point forward. 

The hallway was empty, but there were distant voices from the living room. 
The bathroom was on her right, its door open, dark. Minnie and Roman’s 
bedroom was on the left, with a bedside lamp burning. There was no crib, no 
baby. 

She went cautiously down the hallway. A door on the right was locked; 
another, on the left, was a linen closet. 

Over the curio cabinet hung a small but vivid oil painting of a church in 
flames. Before, there had been only a clean space and a hook; now there was this 
shocking painting. St. Patrick’s, it looked like, with yellow and orange flames 
bursting from its windows and soaring through its gutted roof. 

Where had she seen it? A church burning... 

In the dream. The one where they had carried her through the linen closet. 
Guy and somebody else. “You’ve got her too high.” To a ballroom where a 
church was burning. Where that church was burning. 

But how could it be? 

Had she really been carried through the closet, seen the painting as they 
carried her past it? 

Find Andy. Find Andy. Find Andy. 



Knife high, she followed the jog to the left and the right. Other doors were 
locked. There was another painting; nude men and women dancing in a circle. 
Ahead were the foyer and the front door, the archway on the right to the living 
room. The voices were louder. “Not if he’s still waiting for a plane, he isn’t!” Mr. 
Fountain said, and there was laughter and then hushing. 

In the dream ballroom Jackie Kennedy had spoken kindly to her and gone 
away, and then all of them had been there, the whole coven, naked and singing in 
a circle around her. Had it been a real thing that had really happened? Roman in 
a black robe had drawn designs on her. Dr. Sapirstein had held a cup of red paint 
for him. Red paint? Blood? 

“Oh hell now, Hayato,” Minnie said, “you’re just making fun of me! 'Pulling 
my leg’ is what we say over here.” 

Minnie? Back from Europe? And Roman too? But only yesterday there had 
been a card from Dubrovnik saying they were staying on! 

Had they ever really been away? 

She was at the archway now, could see the bookshelves and file cabinets and 
bridge tables laden with newspapers and stacked envelopes. The coven was at 
the other end, laughing, talking softly. Ice cubes clinked. 

She bettered her grip on the knife and moved a step forward. She stopped, 
staring. 

Across the room, in the one large window bay, stood a black bassinet. Black 
and only black it was; skirted with black taffeta, hooded and flounced with black 
organza. A silver ornament turned on a black ribbon pinned to its black hood. 

Dead? But no, even as she feared it, the stiff organza trembled, the silver 
ornament quivered. 

He was in there. In that monstrous perverted witches’ bassinet. 

The silver ornament was a crucifix hanging upside down, with the black 
ribbon wound and knotted around Jesus’ ankles. 

The thought of her baby lying helpless amid sacrilege and horror brought 
tears to Rosemary’s eyes, and suddenly a longing dragged at her to do nothing 
but collapse and weep, to surrender completely before such elaborate and 
unspeakable evil. She withstood it though; she shut her eyes tight to stop the 
tears, said a quick Hail Mary, and drew together all her resolve and all her hatred 
too; hatred of Minnie, Roman, Guy, Dr. Sapirstein—of all of them who had 
conspired to steal Andy away from her and make their loathsome uses of him. 
She wiped her hands on her housecoat, threw back her hair, found a fresh grip on 
the knife’s thick handle, and stepped out where they could every one of them see 



her and know she had come. 

Insanely, they didn’t. They went right on talking, listening, sipping, 
pleasantly partying, as if she were a ghost, or back in her bed dreaming; Minnie, 
Roman, Guy (contracts!), Mr. Fountain, the Weeses, Laura-Louise, and a 
studious-looking young Japanese with eyeglasses—all gathered under an over- 
the-mantel portrait of Adrian Marcato. He alone saw her. He stood glaring at her, 
motionless, powerful; but powerless, a painting. 

Then Roman saw her too; put down his drink and touched Minnie’s arm. 
Silence sprang up, and those who sat with their backs toward her turned around 
questioningly. Guy started to rise but sat down again. Laura-Louise clapped her 
hands to her mouth and began squealing. Helen Wees said, “Get back in bed, 
Rosemary; you know you aren’t supposed to be up and around.” Either mad or 
trying psychology. 

“Is the mother?” the Japanese asked, and when Roman nodded, said “Ah, 
sssssssssssss,” and looked at Rosemary with interest. 

“She killed Leah,” Mr. Fountain said, standing up. “She killed my Leah. Did 
you? Where is she? Did you kill my Leah?” 

Rosemary stared at them, at Guy. He looked down, red-faced. 

She gripped the knife tighter. “Yes,” she said, “I killed her. I stabbed her to 
death. And I cleaned my knife and I’ll stab to death whoever comes near me. 
Tell them how sharp it is, Guy!” 

He said nothing. Mr. Fountain sat down, a hand to his heart. Laura-Louise 
squealed. 

Watching them, she started across the room toward the bassinet. 

“Rosemary,” Roman said. 

“Shut up,” she said. 

“Before you look at—” 

“Shut up,” she said. “You’re in Dubrovnik. I don’t hear you.” 

“Let her,” Minnie said. 

She watched them until she was by the bassinet, which was angled in their 
direction. With her free hand she caught the black-covered handle at the foot of 
it and swung the bassinet slowly, gently, around to face her. Taffeta rustled; the 
back wheels squeaked. 

Asleep and sweet, so small and rosy-faced, Andy lay wrapped in a snug 
black blanket with little black mitts ribbon-tied around his wrists. Orange-red 
hair he had, a surprising amount of it, silky-clean and brushed. Andy! Oh, Andy! 
She reached out to him, her knife turning away; his lips pouted and he opened 



his eyes and looked at her. His eyes were golden-yellow, all golden-yellow, with 
neither whites nor irises; all golden-yellow, with vertical black-slit pupils. 

She looked at him. 

He looked at her, golden-yellowly, and then at the swaying upside-down 
crucifix. 

She looked at them watching her and knife-in-hand screamed at them, “What 
have you done to his eyes?” 

They stirred and looked to Roman. 

“He has His Father’s eyes,” he said. 

She looked at him, looked at Guy—whose eyes were hidden behind a hand 
—looked at Roman again. “What are you talking about?” she said. “Guy’s eyes 
are brown, they’re normal! What have you done to him, you maniacs?” She 
moved from the bassinet, ready to kill them. 

“Satan is His Father, not Guy,” Roman said. “Satan is His Father, who came 
up from Hell and begat a Son of mortal woman! To avenge the iniquities visited 
by the God worshipers upon His never-doubting followers!” 

“Hail Satan,” Mr. Wees said. 

“Satan is His Father and His name is Adrian!” Roman cried, his voice 
growing louder and prouder, his bearing more strong and forceful. “He shall 
overthrow the mighty and lay waste their temples! He shall redeem the despised 
and wreak vengeance in the name of the burned and the tortured!” 

“Hail Adrian,” they said. “Hail Adrian.” “Hail Adrian.” And “Hail Satan.” 
“Hail Satan.” “Hail Adrian.” “Hail Satan.” 

She shook her head. “No,” she said. 

Minnie said, “He chose you out of all the world, Rosemary. Out of all the 
women in the whole world, He chose you. He brought you and Guy to your 
apartment there, He made that foolish what’s-her-name, Terry, made her get all 
scared and silly so we had to change our plans, He arranged everything that had 
to be arranged, cause He wanted you to be the mother of His only living Son.” 

“His power is stronger than stronger,” Roman said. 

“Hail Satan,” Helen Wees said. 

“His might will last longer than longer.” 

“Hair Satan,” the Japanese said. 

Laura-Louise uncovered her mouth. Guy looked out at Rosemary from under 
his hand. 

“No,” she said, “no,” the knife hanging at her side. “No. It can’t be. No.” 

“Go look at His hands,” Minnie said. “And His feet.” 



“And His tail,” Laura-Louise said. 

“And the buds of His horns,” Minnie said. 

“Oh God,” Rosemary said. 

“God’s dead,” Roman said. 

She turned to the bassinet, let fall the knife, turned back to the watching 
coven. “Oh God!” she said and covered her face. “Oh God!” And raised her fists 
and screamed to the ceiling: “Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!” 

“God is DEAD!” Roman thundered. “God is dead and Satan lives! The year 
is One, the first year of our Lord! The year is One, God is done! The year is One, 
Adrian’s begun!” 

“Hail Satan!” they cried. “Hail Adrian!” “Hail Adrian!” “Hail Satan!” 

She backed away—“No, no”—backed farther and farther away until she was 
between two bridge tables. A chair was behind her; she sat down on it and stared 
at them. “No.” 


Mr. Fountain hurried out and down the hallway. Guy and Mr. Wees hurried after 
him. 

Minnie went over and, gmnting as she stooped, picked up the knife. She 
took it out to the kitchen. 

Laura-Louise went to the bassinet and rocked it possessively, making faces 
into it. The black taffeta rustled; the wheels squeaked. 

She sat there and stared. “No,” she said. 

The dream. The dream. It had been true. The yellow eyes she had looked up 
into. “Oh God,” she said. 

Roman came over to her. “Clare is just putting on,” he said, “holding his 
heart that way over Leah. He’s not that sorry. Nobody really liked her; she was 
stingy, emotionally as well as financially. Why don’t you help us out, Rosemary, 
be a real mother to Adrian; and we’ll fix it so you don’t get punished for killing 
her. So that nobody ever even finds out about it. You don’t have to join if you 
don’t want to; just be a mother to your baby.” He bent over and whispered: 
“Minnie and Laura-Louise are too old. It’s not right.” 

She looked at him. 

He stood straight again. “Think about it, Rosemary,” he said. 

“I didn’t kill her,” she said. 

“Oh?” 


“I just gave her pills,” she said. “She’s asleep.” 



“Oh,” he said. 

The doorbell rang. 

“Excuse me,” he said, and went to answer it. “Think about it anyway,” he 
said over his shoulder. 

“Oh God,” she said. 

“Shut up with your Oh God’s’ or we’ll kill you,” Laura-Louise said, rocking 
the bassinet. “Milk or no milk.” 

“You shut up,” Helen Wees said, coming to Rosemary and putting a 
dampened handkerchief in her hand. “Rosemary is His mother, no matter how 
she behaves,” she said. “You remember that, and show some respect.” 

Laura-Louise said something under her breath. 

Rosemary wiped her forehead and cheeks with the cool handkerchief. The 
Japanese, sitting across the room on a hassock, caught her eye and grinned and 
ducked his head. He held up an opened camera into which he was putting film, 
and moved it back and forth in the direction of the bassinet, grinning and 
nodding. She looked down and started to cry. She wiped at her eyes. 

Roman came in holding the arm of a robust, handsome, dark-skinned man in 
a snow-white suit and white shoes. He carried a large box wrapped in light blue 
paper patterned with Teddy bears and candy canes. Musical sounds came from it. 
Everyone gathered to meet him and shake his hand. “Worried,” they said, and 
“pleasure,” and “airport,” and “Stavropoulos,” and “occasion.” Laura-Louise 
brought the box to the bassinet. She held it up for the baby to see, shook it for 
him to hear, and put it on the window seat with many other boxes similarly 
wrapped and a few that were wrapped in black with black ribbon. 

“Just after midnight on June twenty-fifth,” Roman said. “Exactly half the 
year ’round from you-know. Isn’t it perfect?” 

“But why are you surprised?” the newcomer asked with both his hands 
outstretched. “Didn’t Edmond Lautreamont predict June twenty-fifth three 
hundred years ago?” 

“Indeed he did,” Roman said, smiling, “but it’s such a novelty for one of his 
predictions to prove accurate!” Everyone laughed. “Come, my friend,” Roman 
said, drawing the newcomer forward, “come see Him. Come see the Child.” 

They went to the bassinet, where Laura-Louise waited with a shopkeeper’s 
smile, and they closed around it and looked into it silently. After a few moments 
the newcomer lowered himself to his knees. 

Guy and Mr. Wees came in. 

They waited in the archway until the newcomer had risen, and then Guy 



came over to Rosemary. “She’ll be all right,” he said; “Abe is in there with her.” 
He stood looking down at her, his hands rubbing at his sides. “They promised 
me you wouldn’t be hurt,” he said. “And you haven’t been, really. I mean, 
suppose you’d had a baby and lost it; wouldn’t it be the same? And we’re getting 
so much in return, Ro.” 

She put the handkerchief on the table and looked at him. As hard as she 
could she spat at him. 

He flushed and turned away, wiping at the front of his jacket. Roman caught 
him and introduced him to the newcomer, Argyron Stavropoulos. 

“How proud you must be,” Stavropoulos said, clasping Guy’s hand in both 
his own. “But surely that isn’t the mother there? Why in the name of—” Roman 
drew him away and spoke in his ear. 

“Here,” Minnie said, and offered Rosemary a mug of steaming tea. “Drink 
this and you’ll feel a little better.” 

Rosemary looked at it, and looked up at Minnie. “What’s in it?” she said; 
“tannis root?” 

“Nothing is in it,” Minnie said. “Except sugar and lemon. It’s plain ordinary 
Lipton tea. You drink it.” She put it down by the handkerchief. 


The thing to do was kill it. Obviously. Wait till they were all sitting at the other 
end, then mn over, push away Laura-Louise, and grab it and throw it out the 
window. And jump out after it. Mother Slays Baby and Self at Bramford. 

Save the world from God-knows-what. From Satan-knows-what. 

A tail! The buds of his horns! 

She wanted to scream, to die. 

She would do it, throw it out and jump. 

They were all milling around now. Pleasant cocktail party. The Japanese was 
taking pictures; of Guy, of Stavropoulos, of Laura-Louise holding the baby. 

She turned away, not wanting to see. 

Those eyes! Like an animal’s, a tiger’s, not like a human being’s! 

He xvasn’t a human being, of course. He was—some kind of a half-breed. 

And how dear and sweet he had looked before he had opened those yellow 
eyes! The tiny chin, a bit like Brian’s; the sweet mouth; all that lovely orange- 
red hair...It would be nice to look at him again, if only he wouldn’t open those 
yellow animal-eyes. 

She tasted the tea. It was tea. 



No, she couldn’t throw him out the window. He was her baby, no matter who 
the father was. What she had to do was go to someone who would understand. 
Like a priest. Yes, that was the answer; a priest. It was a problem for the Church 
to handle. For the Pope and all the cardinals to deal with, not stupid Rosemary 
Reilly from Omaha. 

Killing was wrong, no matter what. 

She drank more tea. 

He began whimpering because Laura-Louise was rocking the bassinet too 
fast, so of course the idiot began rocking it faster. 

She stood it as long as she could and then got up and went over. 

“Get away from here,” Laura-Louise said. “Don’t you come near Him. 
Roman!” 

“You’re rocking him too fast,” she said. 

“Sit down!” Laura-Louise said, and to Roman, “Get her out of here. Put her 
back where she belongs.” 

Rosemary said, “She’s rocking him too fast; that’s why he’s whimpering.” 

“Mind your own business!” Laura-Louise said. 

“Let Rosemary rock Him,” Roman said. 

Laura-Louise stared at him. 

“Go on,” he said, standing behind the bassinet’s hood. “Sit down with the 
others. Let Rosemary rock Him.” 

“She’s liable—” 

“Sit down with the others, Laura-Louise. ” 

She huffed, and marched away. 

“Rock Him,” Roman said to Rosemary, smiling. He moved the bassinet back 
and forth toward her, holding it by the hood. 

She stood still and looked at him. “You’re trying to—get me to be his 
mother,” she said. 

“Aren ’t you His mother?” Roman said. “Go on. Just rock Him till He stops 
complaining.” 

She let the black-covered handle come into her hand, and closed her fingers 
around it. For a few moments they rocked the bassinet between them, then 
Roman let go and she rocked it alone, nice and slowly. She glanced at the baby, 
saw his yellow eyes, and looked to the window. “You should oil the wheels,” she 
said. “That could bother him too.” 

“I will,” Roman said. “You see? He’s stopped complaining. He knows who 
you are.” 



“Don’t be silly,” Rosemary said, and looked at the baby again. He was 
watching her. His eyes weren’t that bad really, now that she was prepared for 
them. It was the surprise that had upset her. They were pretty in a way. “What 
are his hands like?” she asked, rocking him. 

“They’re very nice,” Roman said. “He has claws, but they’re very tiny and 
pearly. The mitts are only so He doesn’t scratch Himself, not because His hands 
aren’t attractive.” 

“He looks worried,” she said. 

Dr. Sapirstein came over. “A night of surprises,” he said. 

“Go away,” she said, “or I’m going to spit in your face.” 

“Go away, Abe,” Roman said, and Dr. Sapirstein nodded and went away. 

“Not you,” Rosemary said to the baby. “It’s not your fault. I’m angry at 
them, because they tricked me and lied to me. Don’t look so worried; I’m not 
going to hurt you.” 

“He knows that,” Roman said. 

“Then what does he look so worried for?” Rosemary said. “The poor little 
thing. Look at him.” 

“In a minute,” Roman said. “I have to attend to my guests. I’ll be right 
back.” He backed away, leaving her alone. 

“Word of honor I’m not going to hurt you,” she said to the baby. She bent 
over and untied the neck of his gown. “Laura-Louise made this too tight, didn’t 
she. I’ll make it a little looser and then you’ll be more comfortable. You have a 
very cute chin; are you aware of that fact? You have strange yellow eyes, but you 
have a very cute chin.” 

She tied the gown more comfortably for him. 

Poor little creature. 

He couldn’t be all bad, he just couldn ’t. Even if he was half Satan, wasn’t he 
half her as well, half decent, ordinary, sensible, human being? If she worked 
against them, exerted a good influence to counteract their bad one... 

“You have a room of your own, do you know that?” she said, undoing the 
blanket around him, which was also too tight. “It has white-and-yellow 
wallpaper and a white crib with yellow bumpers, and there isn’t one drop of 
witchy old black in the whole place. We’ll show it to you when you’re ready for 
your next feeding. In case you’re curious, / happen to be the lady who’s been 
supplying all that milk you’ve been drinking. I’ll bet you thought it comes in 
bottles, didn’t you. Well it doesn’t; it comes in mothers, and I’m yours. That’s 
right, Mr. Worry-face. You seem to greet the idea with no enthusiasm 



whatsoever.” 

Silence made her look up. They were gathering around to watch her, 
stopping at a respectful distance. 

She felt herself blushing and turned back to tucking the blanket around the 
baby. “Let them watch,” she said; “we don’t care, do we? We just want to be all 
cozy and comfortable, like so. There. Better?” 

“Hail Rosemary,” Helen Wees said. 

The others took it up. “Hail Rosemary.” “Hail Rosemary.” Minnie and 
Stavropoulos and Dr. Sapirstein. “Hail Rosemary.” Guy said it too. “Hail 
Rosemary.” Laura-Louise moved her lips but made no sound. 

“Hail Rosemary, mother of Adrian!” Roman said. 

She looked up from the bassinet. “It’s Andrew,” she said. “Andrew John 
Woodhouse.” 

“Adrian Steven,” Roman said. 

Guy said, “Roman, look,” and Stavropoulos, at Roman’s other side, touched 
his arm and said, “Is the name of so great an importance?” 

“It is. Yes. It is,” Roman said. “His name is Adrian Steven.” 

Rosemary said, “I understand why you’d like to call him that, but I’m sorry; 
you can’t. His name is Andrew John. He’s my child, not yours, and this is one 
point that I’m not even going to argue about. This and the clothes. He can’t wear 
black all the time.” 

Roman opened his mouth but Minnie said “Hail Andrew” in a loud voice, 
looking right at him. 

Everyone else said “Hail Andrew” and “Hail Rosemary, mother of Andrew” 
and “Hail Satan.” 

Rosemary tickled the baby’s tummy. “You didn’t like ‘Adrian,’ did you?” 
she asked him. “ should think not. ‘Adrian Steven’! Will you please stop looking 
so worried?” She poked the tip of his nose. “Do you know how to smile yet, 
Andy? Do you? Come on, little funny-eyes Andy, can you smile? Can you smile 
for Mommy?” She tapped the silver ornament and set it swinging. “Come on, 
Andy,” she said. “One little smile. Come on, Andy-candy.” 

The Japanese slipped forward with his camera, crouched, and took two three 
four pictures in quick succession.